


Things Fall Apart

by Essie_Cat



Series: A Few Good Things [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Cursed Child - Thorne & Rowling
Genre: Anxiety, Asexual Albus, Asexual Character, Body Image, Chubby Scorpius, Fluff and Angst, Food Issues, Getting Back Together, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Insecurity, M/M, Nonbinary Victoire, Not Harry Potter and the Cursed Child Compliant, Panic Attacks, Weight Gain, Weight Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 09:27:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 32,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28901127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Essie_Cat/pseuds/Essie_Cat
Summary: “You’re the Malfoy who dated Al Potter, aren’t you? You guys were in Witch Weekly all the time! You were so cute together.”Scorpius has a lot on his plate right now (figuratively and, more often than not, literally). He’s out of his depth in his new Muggle job. His Death Eater grandfather is out on parole. He's falling back into old stress-eating habits.And now Albus is asking him to give their relationship another chance. But, after a year apart, can they make things work this time around?
Relationships: Draco Malfoy & Scorpius Malfoy, Scorpius Malfoy/Albus Severus Potter
Series: A Few Good Things [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2155320
Comments: 38
Kudos: 110





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place in the same verse as [A Good Thing](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27251389), but is written as a standalone, so you don’t need to read that first (unless you would like to of course, in which case, please enjoy). 
> 
> If you have read ‘A Good Thing’, this takes place about five years later when Scorpius and Albus are in their early twenties. This touches on a lot of the same themes, i.e. my usual fare (body image! boys being awkward! repressed emotions!) but there's also sort of a plot (gasp). 
> 
> Please watch the tags for this one - it touches on body image, issues with food, and mental health stuff, so if any of those might be difficult topics for you, please be careful <3 
> 
> With all that said, I hope you enjoy!

Albus isn’t a huge fan of family parties, as a general rule. There are far too many people in his extended family and it’s frankly exhausting when they all crowd together under the same roof. But it’s Teddy’s 30th, and everyone loves Teddy, so they’ve all shown up determined to have a good time. 

The music’s good. There’s plenty of booze. Uncle George is showing off some indoor fireworks from his shop, pink and orange lights spitting everywhere. James isn’t talking _too_ much about the latest pronouncements from the International Confederation of Wizards, which is a blessing for everyone concerned. Victoire has made mountains of choux buns filled with cream and chocolate that are absolutely to _die_ for. 

Oh, and Albus is currently sandwiched between a door and the ex-boyfriend he’s been pining after for months. So, all in all, this particular party is going pretty well so far.

Scorpius has a hand on the door either side of him, bracketing him in. His kisses are keen, hungry, and he feels so good under Albus’s touch, warm and soft and heavy against him as their bodies press together. It’s been so long since they did anything like this, since they were even alone together. Far too long. Over a year.

God, Albus has missed him. 

“Scorpius,” he gasps, and Scorpius pulls away for a moment, meeting his eye. But Albus gets lost in those pretty grey eyes, in his faint scent of pine needles and fresh spring air, and fuck if he knows what he meant to say. 

There’s a lot going on in his head right now, like _how did this happen_ , and _where the hell do we go from here_ , and _oh god I wish we weren’t in Teddy and Victoire’s spare room with my entire family downstairs_. He wants to talk for hours where they pour over everything that went wrong before and find a way to fix it; where they catch up on every second of the last eighteen months so they’ve missed nothing, so they know everything about each other the way they used to. 

But he also wants to do _this_ for as long as possible, where he doesn’t have to say anything, doesn’t have to think straight. So he just leans in again, their lips coming together. 

Albus hadn’t shown up tonight expecting this to happen. Far from it. Sure, he and Scorpius have been writing to each other for the past few weeks, properly on speaking terms again for the first time since they broke up. Which has been really bloody nice. But that didn’t necessarily _mean_ anything. It was just them being decent human beings, navigating the waters of post-breakup uncertainty in a mature and healthy manner. 

Scorpius had been the one to start it. _Just wanted to clear the air before Teddy’s birthday_ , his first letter had said. _I don’t want things to be weird._ It had been wonderful to get the letter, though Albus’s chest had twisted a little all the same. 

And then tonight, Scorpius had greeted him with a one-armed hug in a _hello, platonic friend_ sort of way, which had been painful. And they’d had a very civil chat about whether Teddy was old enough now to be having a midlife crisis, which had been positively excruciating. Albus had plastered on a smile and gripped his glass so hard it was a wonder it hadn’t cracked.

And then there was the fact that Scorpius looked so ridiculously hot that it had just about taken Albus’s breath away.

Scorpius had the bad manners to get more attractive since their breakup. He’s dressed really well tonight, his smart-casual shirt and jeans a far cry from the baggy hoodies and scuffed trainers he used to favour. His hair looks sinfully good, a bit longer than it used to be, falling in a way that’s just begging for Albus to run his fingers through it. The tattoos on his forearm are new, though Albus is familiar with the ones higher up, concealed by his shirtsleeves. 

Scorpius’s hands have migrated from the door to Albus's hips, and his touch is so confident, so familiar, and all Albus can think is _this, this is what I want, and if I have to go another eighteen months without it, I might just break._

But then Scorpius is pulling away, stumbling backwards.

“Fuck.”

Albus stares at him. He runs a hand self-consciously over his short, dark hair. Scorpius’s hair, a little longer and white-blond, is all over the place where Albus’s hands had been grasping at it. Suddenly he feels a wave of embarrassment at how obvious he’s been, how desperate. 

Scorpius doesn’t want this. Doesn’t want him. He made that quite clear eighteen months ago.

Scorpius says quietly, “What are we _doing_ , Al?”

“I’m sorry,” Albus says quickly.

“No, I’m sorry. Fuck. I’m really sorry.”

Scorpius flattens his hair where Albus had messed it up, tugs down the hem of his shirt where it had rucked up slightly, pulls his jumper back on over the top. He checks himself in the mirror on the wardrobe door, clearly trying to ensure his appearance doesn't scream _I've been making out with my ex-boyfriend in the spare bedroom_ before he heads back downstairs. In the mirror, Albus can see that his face has settled into that careful blankness that it always used to when Scorpius was really stressed.

“I’ll go down first,” Scorpius is saying. “Maybe give it five minutes before you do?” Even if his face is carefully neutral, the embarrassment in his voice is so apparent that Albus’s insides start to squirm even more insistently. “I … have a good night, Al.”

Then he’s gone, returning to the noise and bustle of the celebrations downstairs. Albus flops down on the bed, feeling crushed and mortified and really fucking stupid.

*

Scorpius is stressed as hell. His first instinct is to grab a drink, but he’s already had a couple of beers and that’s probably enough. He’s at a party with his dad and a lot of other people he doesn’t want to embarrass himself in front of. He has a suspicion that one drink will lead to plenty more, and probably to him confessing his undying love for Albus Potter in front of Al’s entire family. 

Because, yeah. Of course he still loves Albus. Albus is a wonderful human being who is very easy to love. It’s been eighteen months and Scorpius has dated a lot of people in that time and none of them made him feel a fraction of what he feels for Albus.

But they broke up for good reasons, and those reasons haven’t vanished in a puff of smoke just because of a few ill-advised kisses. No matter how _very nice_ said kisses might have been.

“Scorp!”

It’s Teddy. He knows it is. Only his mum and Teddy have ever called him _Scorp._ His name is ridiculous enough without throwing abbreviations into the mix.

He throws an arm around Scorpius’s shoulders and begins introducing him to someone Scorpius vaguely recognises as a former Hufflepuff prefect. Teddy’s good like that, the kind of guy who’ll see someone looking awkward in the corner at a party and immediately come over to chat their ear off. And he’s always kept an eye out for Scorpius, even though Scorpius isn’t eight years old anymore and should probably be better at looking after himself. 

“Margo, meet Scorpius, my favourite cousin. Second cousin. Also my only cousin. No one ever believes I’m related to the Malfoys, but it’s true, really. See the family resemblance?”

Teddy sticks his chin in the air and suddenly he’s flicking white-blond hair out of his eyes, looking ridiculously pleased with himself. Usually Scorpius is all on board with Teddy showing off his Metamorphmagus abilities — it’s always a good laugh — but right now the word _resemblance_ is making him cringe, and all he can think about is the considerable number of pounds separating him and Teddy, for all they’re about the same height, and how Margo the Hufflepuff is probably thinking about that, and he’s desperately wishing that Teddy hadn’t said anything that alluded to his appearance, and —

“Anyone fancy a game of Gobstones?” Teddy says to no one in particular, and somehow Scorpius finds himself sitting down to a tipsy game of Gobstones with Teddy and his friends and a handful of assorted Weasleys. 

It’s fun, sort of. He wants to have fun tonight, for Teddy who was nice enough to invite him and who wants him to have a good time. He wants something, anything, to distract him from what happened with Albus earlier, and to distract him from the fact that Albus is downing firewhisky at an impressive rate, chatting with Lily and Victoire across the room.

He thought he was over Albus. Well, not _over_ him exactly, but he thought he’d done a good job of parceling his feelings away in a little box in a far-flung corner of his brain, never to be touched upon again. And he’s done an excellent job of avoiding the guy for eighteen months, which has helped. 

But now, after all this time, it somehow feels the same, all those feelings spilling out of the box and snaking through him, warm and comforting and terrifying. Albus is the same, with his broad smiles and easy laughs and that adorable shyness that sneaks up on him sometimes. He looks the same too, fit and lean and broad-shouldered, his dark hair cropped short, his skin brown and clear, his eyes that beautiful forest green, and — 

“Honestly? I would let Al Potter do _anything_ he wanted to me.”

Scorpius looks round instinctively and regrets it at once. It’s not his damned business, and he’s not likely to hear anything he’ll enjoy. He could, and should, just walk away. But he stands there and stares down into his empty glass and he listens. He doesn’t recognise the speaker, presumably someone from some unfamiliar facet of Teddy’s life, waving a glass of wine at her friend.

“I know James is the one who gets all the attention,” she continues, while her friend looks pained, “and I get it, young and sexy politician who wants to change the world, that’s a fantasy I didn’t know I had til I saw him. But Albus is a Quidditch player _and_ he’s all cute and shy. How could anyone say no to that?”

“Christ, Jade, you can’t say that _here_.” Jade’s friend makes eye contact with Scorpius and immediately turns tomato-red. 

“Oh hell,” says Jade, who is either a bit drunk or just has no filter whatsoever. “You — fuck, you’re the Malfoy who dated Al Potter, aren’t you?”

As if there were loads of other Malfoys out there that Albus might have dated. It would be just his luck if this was the moment he discovered his father and Albus had some secret tryst he didn’t know about.

“Yeah,” he tells them, and Jade’s eyes almost pop out of her skull. He feels her eager gaze rake him up and down, and he knows his cheeks have started to flush.

“You guys were in Witch Weekly all the time,” she practically coos, and Scorpius wonders why he hasn’t already fled the scene, his feet somehow frozen in place. “You were so cute together.”

“Um.” Scorpius isn’t sure what to say. He wants to think about all those mortifying Witch Weekly photographs even less. “Right.”

Jade is still gazing at him, rapt, as though she hopes he might spill some delicious secrets that the tabloids didn’t get hold of, or like he might offer to introduce her to Al so they can sail off happily into the sunset together. Scorpius feels rather like he’s on fire. 

He knows he’s spiralling a bit, confidence-wise. He’s having one of those moments where he feels like everyone who looks at him just thinks _Christ, look at the size of him._ Which, rationally, he knows isn’t true. Probably. They’re at a party. Most people have much better things to occupy their thoughts. It’s self-centred to assume everyone is focusing on him. And it’s deeply unhelpful.

But all he can think now is that Jade is almost definitely thinking it, that she’s wondering how the hell _he_ managed to get Albus Potter, part of the most famous family in wizarding Britain, Keeper for the Wimbourne Wasps, and all round fantastic human being. And if she remembers those photos of him, then maybe she’s clocked how much bigger he is now than he was back then. 

So, yeah. Definitely spiralling. 

Without saying a word to Jade or her friend, he turns and makes for the kitchen to get himself another drink, a small quest to give himself some purpose. As he ducks out of the situation, keen to get as far away as possible, he hears Jade hiss after him, “Sorry you heard that about Albus — what I said about letting him do me —” while her friend shushes her frantically.

He gets himself a drink, determinedly sticking to lemonade, despite the temptation to throw back a few glasses of gin and see where things go from there. He avoids his father, who he can see watching him from across the room, chatting with Andromeda. He avoids Albus, who he can see pointedly not watching him from across the room, talking intensely with Victoire. 

He finds himself tugging at the hem of his jumper, an inconvenient self-conscious habit he’s developed, as if he needed any more reason to draw people’s attention to his stomach. It’s pretty difficult to hide these days, round and soft and dipping over the waistband of his jeans, too big to successfully suck in. 

Scorpius has always been on the heavier side. This is nothing new. But if he thought he was fat before, he’s definitely fatter now. It’s not like he’s in denial about it. He knows he’s gained weight. He’s the one hanging out in his body, after all. He’s pretty familiar with it. The pointed looks and snide comments he gets at home are entirely unnecessary. 

And he _is_ going to do something about it. It’s not as though he planned to let things get this bad. He knows what a mess he must look, what everyone must think of him.

Except, upstairs, Albus had kissed him anyway. Touched him like he’d barely noticed. Like it didn’t matter. 

*

Albus is good at lots of things. Buying people birthday presents. Cleaning spells. Making pizza. Quidditch. (Okay, mostly Quidditch.) But apparently, he is absolutely terrible at playing it cool. 

Victoire says, with an infuriating airy innocence, “So, Scorpius looks good.” 

“If you say so.” Albus attempts to sound offhand, as if he hasn’t been thinking the same (and stronger) all evening. And as if he hasn’t very obviously been gazing at Scorpius across the room, zoning in and out of his conversation with Victoire, which apparently hasn’t gone unnoticed.

Victoire raises their perfectly shaped eyebrows. “His new job sounds brilliant. Have you had a chance to catch up with him? Must be a while since you last saw him.” They pause for effect, then add, “Teddy says he asks about you all the time.”

Albus looks at them sharply — too sharply, too obviously interested. Victoire grins, impossibly smug.

They continue, “I’m not sure whether he tells Scorpius how often _you_ ask about _him_.”

“Barely ever!” Albus protests, feeling his face flush. He takes a hurried sip of firewhisky, just for something to do. Has he thought about marching straight over there, plonking himself down and joining the game of Gobstones that Scorpius is playing with Teddy and some of his friends? Of course he has. But they look like they’re having a good time, and Albus doesn’t want to interrupt. Doesn’t want to desperately throw himself at Scorpius again when Scorpius has made it clear he doesn’t want that.

“You’re about as subtle as a giant in heels,” Victoire informs him. “If you weren’t my favourite cousin, I’d be much meaner to you about it.”

“I’m your favourite? That’s a bold statement in this room.”

“You’re all my favourite. Things are simpler that way.” Victoire grins, unabashed, running a hand over their short-cropped hair. 

Victoire is a difficult person to say no to, something they have in common with Teddy. They’re all effortless grace to his bright enthusiasm; while Teddy would cheerily charm you into agreeing before you’d even realised what was happening, Victoire takes a more direct approach. They firmly remove the glass of firewhisky from Albus’s hand and march him over to the Gobstones game as though it’s the only possible course of action. 

Except by the time they get there, after all of Albus’s hedging and excuses, Scorpius has already moved on from the game and gone to talk to someone else. Albus can’t pick him out in the crowd, so instead he accepts another drink that Teddy hands him, and sits down for a game of Gobstones.

“Hello, beautiful,” Teddy greets Victoire, in a way that should be sickening but somehow manages to be exceptionally charming. They roll their eyes at him, but affectionately pet his hair when he leans his head on their shoulder.

After one game of Gobstones, three rounds of exploding snap, and something that Teddy claims is poker but no one seems certain of the rules, the birthday boy is absolutely hammered. 

It’s getting late at this point; Albus’s parents and most of his aunts and uncles have already excused themselves. Albus helps Teddy stand up, and he stumbles, leaning heavily on Albus’s shoulder, nattering away about hippogriffs.

“Teddy, you are far too old to make a spectacle of yourself,” Victoire says, exasperated, while Teddy gives them puppy-dog eyes. “Al, would you help him upstairs? Dominique’s a mess as well, and I should really take her home.”

“Sure,” Albus tells them confidently, but for some reason Victoire is looking at him doubtfully, apparently reconsidering their request. Okay, perhaps his ‘Sure’ was a little more on the slurred side than usual. But he is perfectly capable of walking up a set of stairs.

Before he knows what’s happening, Victoire has dragged Scorpius out of nowhere, looking immensely relieved to see someone else mostly sober. “Could you keep an eye on Teddy until I get back? You’re an angel,” they tell him. “I won’t be long.”

“I can still help,” Albus says confidently. Victoire and Scorpius give him sceptical looks.

“I’ll look after both of them,” Scorpius promises Victoire and, reassured, they hurry away to deal with their younger sister, who is completely plastered. 

Albus and Scorpius each take one of Teddy’s arms, while he informs them earnestly that they are his absolute favourite people in the world. Scorpius attempts to persuade Albus that it’s fine, he can manage on his own, and Albus cheerfully insists that he should really be there to help. (It suddenly seems _extremely important_ to him that he help Scorpius.) Scorpius doesn’t seem in the mood to argue, so together they help Teddy up the stairs and into his bedroom. Teddy flops down on the bed, and Albus helpfully takes his shoes off for him while Scorpius pours him a large glass of water and sets it down on the bedside table.

“I can take you home, if you like,” Scorpius says, looking awkward and a little concerned, and Albus’s heart just about explodes at the offer. “I’m not sure you should be apparating yourself anywhere.”

“I’m fine!” Albus insists. “I’m not drunk. You think I’m drunk?”

“I think you’ve had a few drinks, yeah.”

“If I was drunk, could I do _this_.”

“Al — Albus, what’re you — DON’T —”

Albus vaults onto his hands in a wobbly handstand, legs waving in the air. Scorpius grabs his shins to hold him steady.

“See,” Albus says happily.

“I’m going to let go of you, and you are going to stand up carefully and quietly and without kicking me in the face, all right?”

“All right,” Albus echoes.

Scorpius releases him, and Albus clatters to the ground, flailing into a bookcase. Scorpius hastily tries to magic the books back into place. 

Teddy sits up on the bed, still looking completely out of it. “The fuck?” he grunts.

“I did a handstand,” Albus tells him.

Scorpius looks deeply exasperated with both of them. He looks down at Albus on the floor, and Teddy sprawled on the bed, and for a beat all of them just stay where they are, pleasantly frozen. Albus feels like this is a good moment, like he would happily have it last forever.

Then it breaks, as Teddy flops back down on the bed with a groan. “Can you two just fuck and make up already?” 

“I would be up for doing one of those things,” Albus tells him seriously. 

Teddy waves a hand. “Sorry, sorry. Forgot about the sex thing. The _no sex_ thing.”

Scorpius clears his throat. “Right. Um.” He looks like he’s struggling for words, and Albus feels a rush of embarrassment pricking through at him despite the warm buzz that’s enveloped him for the last hour or so. “Al, I really think I should take you home. If you don’t mind.”

“You don’t know where I live,” Albus points out, a fact that suddenly feels inexpressibly sad. 

But he agrees easily enough, and once Victoire returns to supervise Teddy, he gives Scorpius his address, holding out his arm so Scorpius can grip him tight and apparate them both away. They show up in the kitchen, and Scorpius does the same little routine he did at Teddy’s, getting Albus a glass of water even though he insists that he’s _fine_ , he’s nowhere near as bad as Teddy, did Scorpius not see the handstand he did earlier? 

Albus holds the glass of water in both hands like a child, bringing it to his lips and taking small, careful mouthfuls as though it’s something to be savoured. 

“Thank you,” he says.

Scorpius is fiddling with the cuffs of his jumper. He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t make any move to leave, either. He looks sweet and unapproachable, familiar and alien, and Albus can feel everything churning inside him, building like a wave. The urge to touch him again, to kiss him like before. To confess the things he’s wanted to say for eighteen months. _It was a mistake. We gave up too easily. We should’ve tried harder. I'm sorry._

When the words press insistently on his tongue, he makes no effort to hold them back.

“I miss you,” he says quietly. 

Scorpius looks at him, eyes grey and guarded. He tugs at the hem of his jumper. “We shouldn’t talk about this now. Not with this much firewhisky in you.”

Albus bites his lip, looks down into his glass. “Right.”

Scorpius hovers there for a moment, and Albus wonders if he might say something more, if he might be willing to hear everything that Albus is so desperate to say to him. But then the moment passes, and he’s apparating away, and Albus is left alone with his glass of water and a dull thudding in his skull and a mouthful of disappointment.

*

When Albus wakes the next morning, he blinks himself into consciousness, his eyelids a little sticky, but otherwise he’s fine. Just as he should be. Last night was fun, and maybe he drank slightly more than he’d planned to, but he wasn’t that bad. He certainly wasn’t drunk, no matter what Victoire or Scorpius might’ve — 

Shit. _Scorpius._

Then he realises what had woken him up. An owl at his window, rapping its beak impatiently against the glass.

Albus nearly falls out of bed in his efforts to get up, the blankets twisting round his legs. He hops and stumbles across the room, and the owl pecks his finger crossly as he takes the letter from its leg.

“Good morning to you too,” he tells it, and it squawks at him before flapping away.

He recognises Scorpius’s neat handwriting at once. It’s not a long letter, and four words in particular shine out to him. 

_I miss you too._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scorpius and Albus try to work out what they want. Witch Weekly speculates about Albus’s love life.

Scorpius isn’t a regular reader of any of the wizarding papers. He tries to keep up with the Muggle news so he doesn’t make a fool of himself at work if his Muggle colleagues bring up something topical. But his family have made too many headlines recently for him to stomach opening the Daily Prophet every morning. (For a fun period last year, he had been reminded on a near-daily basis that he is the only person in his family without an Azkaban mugshot.)

But apparently someone in Malfoy Manor reads Witch Weekly, because there’s a copy lying on the kitchen table, opened to a specific page, an uncomfortable headline blaring out at him:

_Albus Potter Works Up a Sweat With Dashing New Teammate_

The magazine, Scorpius suspects, belongs to his grandmother. The act of leaving it open on the kitchen table for him to see, on the other hand? That’s probably Lucius.

He doesn’t touch the paper, doesn’t want to give Lucius the satisfaction of knowing he’s seen it. After nearly a year of living under the same roof, he’s more than used to his grandfather’s jibes by now. They aren’t even good. He almost wishes Lucius would try harder to insult him.

His eyes linger for a moment on the photograph accompanying the article — Albus and the tall, dark and handsome Eoin Kettering, a Chaser for the Wimbourne Wasps, jogging in a park, heads turned towards each other, chatting silently in the moving image. That’s literally all they’re doing. It’s incredibly innocent and ordinary. But apparently, in Witch Weekly's hands, it’s salacious enough to wrangle a story out of.

Not that Scorpius believes there’s actually anything going on between the two of them. Because Albus is definitely a one-guy-at-a-time sort of person, and he wouldn’t be hinting to Scorpius that they should get back together if he was seeing someone else.

Still, it’s difficult to think of Albus ‘working up a sweat’ with very attractive Quidditch players and not feel a squirm of uncertainty. It’s a reminder that Albus could be — maybe _should_ be — with someone like this, someone fun and fit and easygoing and beautiful and successful. With possibilities like that out there, why on earth would Albus settle for _him_?

But he’s trying not to think like that. Really trying. It’s not helpful. 

Truth be told, Scorpius isn’t completely sure where things stand with Albus at the moment. They’ve been writing to each other ever since Teddy’s birthday last week, letters flying in and out several times a day (Scorpius’s decrepit family owl is absolutely exhausted). And, yes, Scorpius’s heart does embarrassing little backflips whenever he sees Albus’s scrawled handwriting on a letter bearing his name. 

But they haven’t properly _talked_ about anything, or resolved anything. It’s frustrating as hell, but it’s a pleasant limbo, too. It feels safe, not confirming anything, not ruling anything out. While they skirt on the edges of it like this, nothing can go wrong, nothing can be broken beyond repair. It’s probably no surprise that neither of them were in Gryffindor.

Scorpius chews another mouthful of popcorn. He gazes down at the letter he’s started writing, full of caution and uncertainty and cowardly small-talk. He scrunches up the parchment, grabs a fresh sheet, and tries for a different approach. 

*

“Hey, Potter! What’s this I hear about us secretly shagging?”

Albus nearly chokes on his own tongue. He tightens the laces of his Quidditch boots, tries to compose himself, and raises an eyebrow at Kettering. “Did we? It obviously wasn’t that memorable.” 

Kettering guffaws, slapping him good-naturedly on the back, and launches into a tale about Witch Weekly and some story they’re running about the two of them and a passionate romantic entanglement. “My housemate can’t get enough of it. Plastered the bloody photos all over our living room. Mortifying.” 

“What’s this?” chimes in Dawson, the Seeker. “Out breaking hearts again, Potter?”

Albus isn’t sure how he’s garnered a reputation as someone with a highly successful love life. He hasn’t dated anyone seriously since things ended with Scorpius, but apparently his teammates have interpreted this as ‘goes out with a different guy every night’ rather than ‘spends a lot of evenings at home doing jigsaws’. 

Still, he plays along. “Yup. So many gorgeous men falling at my feet every day. It’s becoming a real problem.”

The two of them chuckle, and it’s all in good fun, but Albus’s dating life isn’t his favourite topic at the simplest of times — and with everything sort-of-going-on with Scorpius, a simple time this is not. 

It doesn’t help that none of his teammates know that he’s ace. It makes it more uncomfortable for him to talk about things like this, knowing that this conversation means something different to him than it does to Kettering and Dawson. He’s not in the closet, as such. His family know, and while most of them probably don’t understand it, not really, they’re pretty accepting, more or less. His teammates know he’s gay, but the asexual side of things hasn’t come up yet. 

Kettering waggles his eyebrows at Albus. “So, come on, Potter, when are you taking me home for dinner with the family?”

“Mate, take it down a few notches,” Dawson groans. “At least give it a few weeks before you ask for his dad’s autograph.” 

“I’d be more interested in your mum’s, to be honest,” Kettering says earnestly, and Albus makes a show of sighing dramatically as Dawson rolls her eyes at both of them. 

As the rest of the team head out to the pitch for practice, Albus slinks away for a lone session in the gym. He tries not to think about it too much, the fact that he can’t train properly with the rest of them, how much he’s letting them down because he can’t fly. He also tries not to think about this article about him and Kettering, whether Scorpius knows about it, whether it bothers him. 

Scorpius, who in his last letter had said, _Let’s get lunch. Let’s talk about this._ Scorpius, who he’s seeing this weekend and looking forward to it more than he’s looked forward to anything in months.

As practice draws to a close, he heads out to the pitch to join the rest of the team. It’s odd being the only one there not clutching a broom, but he crosses his arms over his chest and listens carefully to Spinnet giving a mix of critique and encouragement. Rashid, the reserve Keeper who’s taken over from Albus, seems to be doing a good job. 

Spinnet catches his eye as she dismisses the team, but she doesn’t call him over, and he breathes a sigh of relief. 

*

Lunch with Albus is nice. 

He’s already there when Scorpius arrives, staring intently at the menu, tapping his foot against the floor. He leaps up when Scorpius approaches the table, and leans in as if he’s going to kiss him before thinking better of it, and they fall into an awkward sort of half-hug. His cheeks are a little flushed, and he looks nervous and handsome and practically vibrating with anticipation. 

Scorpius feels his insides swooping, and he hasn’t even sat down yet.

Before the waitress arrives, they talk about Teddy and Victoire, because that’s a nice, safe, neutral topic they both have in common. Albus talks about his parents, and Scorpius asks after James and Lily, as if he doesn’t see them in the newspapers every other week, both of them hell-bent on saving the world in their own different ways. Scorpius’s family have occupied their own share of column inches over the past few months, but Albus doesn’t pry about it, which Scorpius is immeasurably grateful for. 

Once they’ve ordered (fish and chips for Albus, soup and a sandwich for Scorpius), he asks how things are going with the Wasps. Albus speaks carefully, respecting that they’re in a Muggle restaurant, but tells him about the tournaments they’ve got coming up and the weird training camp their coach sent them on in Uruguay. 

“I’m not actually flying with the team at the moment,” he admits, which is news to Scorpius, because he only made a point of following Quidditch for Albus’s sake and hasn’t bothered since they broke up. “Got injured a while back and I’m still shaking it off. But I’ll be back in the air soon.”

“Oh, er — I’m sorry to hear that —” 

Albus waves his apologies away easily enough. “What about you? Things going well with the Muggles?”

Scorpius is used to being asked this question in a way that’s mostly condescending — by his dad, say, or by Lucius, who never seems to get tired of asking even though the joke should be solidly in its grave by now. But Albus looks genuinely interested, green eyes bright and attentive, and so Scorpius tries to explain his job in a way that will make sense to him.

“I work in administration for a Muggle university. So it involves lots of, um, organising. I use the internet, and send emails, and work with spreadsheets, and I have a telephone —”

Albus’s eyes are wide, and Scorpius is pretty sure he’s lost him already. But he asks all the right questions, and sounds excited at all the right times. Scorpius is keenly aware of Albus’s hand resting on the table, how he could reach out and take it if he wanted. Of Albus’s leg very close to his, and how easy it would be to knock their knees together. Albus would grin in that way that makes Scorpius’s stomach flip, and tell him he’s an idiot in that way that’s full of affection, and Scorpius would say, _This is right, this is perfect, let’s do this forever._

Because that’s how it feels right now. Everything feels easy and comfortable, like a mug of hot cocoa on a winter day, like pulling the blankets over your head for five more minutes of sleep. It feels just like it used to. 

Except everything _isn’t_ like it used to be. They haven’t spoken properly in over a year. They _broke up_ — Scorpius sat Albus down and said _This isn’t working anymore_ , and it felt true and it felt terrible, and Albus cried, and Scorpius packed up his stuff and moved in with his friend Magda — and they aren’t talking about any of it. 

Lunch is nice, and the conversation is easy, and they resolve absolutely nothing, and Scorpius is still less sure of everything than he was before they sat down to eat. 

“This was nice,” he says awkwardly, once he’s pulled on his coat to leave.

“Yeah.” Albus nods a little frantically. “Really nice.” He pauses, and Scorpius meets his green eyes, and he smiles in apology. “Would you want to do this again, maybe?”

There’s a part of Scorpius, however small, that considers saying no. A part that thinks it might be better if he thanked Al for today, and for the four great years they had together, then shook his hand and walked away and did his best to never see him again. 

But he says, “Yeah, definitely,” and Albus’s face lights up, and it feels like the right decision.

*

For Albus’s second date with Scorpius — if they’re calling them dates, which they might not be, which he and Scorpius have absolutely not discussed and absolutely need to, because for all he knows these might just be platonic-friend-hangouts — Scorpius suggests they go to an aquarium. 

Albus isn’t sure what that is, and he’s nowhere near as good with Muggle stuff as Scorpius is. But apparently aquariums are places where Muggles keep fish, which sounds weird and interesting, and he likes the idea of Scorpius being in his element and rattling on about Muggle trivia and being able to show him how it’s done if he gets out of his depth.

They spend an afternoon walking through tunnels surrounded by all sorts of sea creatures, swooping up the sides and floating above their heads, all of it somehow relaxing yet eerie at the same time. Albus develops a fondness for what is apparently a manta ray (so the signs on the walls inform him), the creatures gliding like ghostly pancakes behind the glass. 

The place is busy, bustling with Muggles, and the buzz of noise and chatter gives Albus the courage to ask, “What do you want?”

Scorpius doesn’t answer for a moment, and Albus feels a prickle of anxiety creeping down the back of his neck. Fish glide above and around them; children chatter and shriek. 

Eventually, gazing through the glass at a yellow fish with pointed fins, Scorpius says, “I don’t want to be your friend. I know that’s not what you’re meant to say, I know how shitty that sounds. But I don’t think I could do it.”

Albus exhales. “I don’t want to be your friend, either. But I don’t want to go back to us not talking.”

“Al…” Scorpius meets his eye, tugging at the sleeves of his jumper. “Why would things be any different now? If we give this another go, all the reasons we broke up will still be there, won’t they?”

For a moment, Albus thinks he’s going to start listing them, but instead he bites his lip and looks at the fish again. Albus is relieved not to have the summary of their relationship failure spoken aloud in a public place. 

It isn’t as though anything big happened. There wasn’t one defining moment that broke things. It was more of a gradual drifting, a slow realisation that they weren’t making time for each other, weren’t trying anymore, weren’t making each other happy. It was easy to put that down to busy work schedules — Scorpius had spent so much time studying, fighting to keep his place on the Ministry’s Working with Muggles programme, and Albus had been away for weeks at a time with the Wasps, attending training or playing in matches around the country and around the world. 

If they’d tried harder, Albus knows, they could have made it work despite those obstacles. But they’d somehow reached a point where neither of them wanted to try anymore. 

Scorpius was the one who ended things, who seemed so confident it was the right choice. And, Albus thinks, maybe it _was_ the right choice for him. Scorpius is the one who seems to have flourished after they broke up, even after all the shit this last year has thrown at him. Scorpius is the one who has to compromise in their relationship, far more than Albus does. 

But even so, he’s here. He kissed Albus at Teddy’s. He sent the first letter and he came for lunch when he could easily have walked away from the whole thing. He’s dragged Albus along to a bloody aquarium to look at fish. He’s having this conversation, even though, by his reasoning, there’s nothing to be gained from it.

“Maybe you’re right,” Albus says. “Maybe nothing’s changed.” 

Scorpius looks at him, surprised, and that gives Albus hope. It shows him that Scorpius expected him to argue about this. Maybe _wants_ him to.

Albus continues, “I don’t know what things are going to look like next month or next year. But seeing you at Teddy’s was amazing. Writing to you these last couple of weeks has been amazing. That’s what I know right now.” 

Scorpius is almost smiling, and Albus feels his heart pounding in his ears. He reaches out, threads his fingers through Scorpius’s. “Let’s get dinner,” he says. “You can come to mine. I’ll cook.”

Scorpius looks like he’s thinking about things, mulling it all over. He hasn’t let go of Albus’s hand, though. Then he says quietly, “We need to be sensible, Al. If we’re going to do this, we can’t just make the same mistakes all over again.”

Albus very much wishes they weren’t standing in the middle of a crowded aquarium surrounded by Muggles and fish. He wishes he were somewhere he could grab Scorpius and pull him close, kiss him like he means it, tell him that he’ll do whatever it takes so that they won’t fuck this up again, say it in such a way that Scorpius will believe him.

He squeezes Scorpius’s hand. “I know. We’ll … we’ll treat this like a new relationship. Because that’s what it is, really. We won’t jump into things too quickly. Take our time.”

Scorpius looks reassured. “Okay.” Then he smirks, sweet and familiar. “So, when you say you’ll cook…”

Albus raises both eyebrows, affronted. “Yes, Malfoy?”

“You mean you’ll make pizza, don’t you?”

“Hey, I could’ve learned to cook more things in the last eighteen months.”

“Have you?”

“Well…” The answer is a definite _no_. Scorpius is still smirking at him with warm amusement, and Albus is so very happy to have Scorpius look at him like that again. “I won’t cook you anything if you’re going to be ungrateful,” he says, attempting to inject it with a Scorpius-like level of haughtiness, and Scorpius laughs, and it’s the only sound Albus ever wants to hear.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scorpius and Albus eat pizza and fail at keeping things casual. The morning after, Albus has to explain himself to Lily, and Scorpius fends off questions from his family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI, there's some very handwavey legal stuff in this chapter (and in future chapters, to be honest) about Lucius being released from Azkaban, so please forgive me for that. But JKR's justice system in canon is pretty messed up, so maybe anything goes?

A week after talking things out in the aquarium, Scorpius arrives at Albus’s house with the best of intentions. Really, he does. He and Albus both want to be sensible, to be careful, to remind themselves that _trying this again_ isn’t the same as _picking up where we left off._

So Scorpius plans to enjoy a nice dinner and Albus’s company, and somehow fit in an uncomfortable discussion about their expectations for this new relationship and feedback on their last one and probably a dissection of their breakup eighteen months ago. And hopefully that won’t ruin the mood _too_ much.

Then he sees Albus making pizza in his kitchen, dressed in a shirt that’s a little too smart and jeans that probably cost more than Scorpius’s entire wardrobe, heavenly smells of tomato, basil and garlic wafting all around. And suddenly it’s four years ago and they’re fresh out of Hogwarts, just moved into a flat together, and Albus is making him pizza for the first time. 

_It’s something my parents did with us growing up,_ he’d said with a shrug, flour all over himself. Scorpius had thrown more flour at him for good measure, and Albus had chased him through the flat until they were both breathless with laughter. Albus had picked him up despite his squawks of protest, declaring himself the winner.

But now it’s four years later and their flat is long gone and Scorpius is almost definitely too heavy to be picked up nowadays. Albus’s pizza looks just as good, though — the base is always thin and crispy, he makes a beautiful tomato sauce, and he gets the balance of spells just right to make up for the lack of a proper pizza oven. 

“Looks amazing,” Scorpius tells him, and Al beams at him, adorably pleased by his efforts. 

When Albus sets the food down before him, a fretful part of Scorpius’s brain insists that he doesn’t eat the whole thing, that he leaves at least some of it. It’s what he would do if this was a normal date, after all. But the pizza is delicious and Albus has made it and Albus eats all of his, and Scorpius’s plate is empty before he knows it. And then Albus is offering him cheesecake for dessert (“I didn’t make it, but it’s a fancy brand, look”), and it’s hard to feel guilty about eating it when Albus looks so happy, shuffling closer to him on the sofa, cheeks flushed with beer and anticipation.

“I like these,” he says, stroking along Scorpius’s arm where his newest tattoos are. The fox on his forearm is over a year old, but the stars at his wrist are only a couple of months. The rest — the half sleeve on his upper arm, and the willow tree on his right calf — he’d had done while he and Albus were together.

In all honesty, Scorpius is a little self-conscious about his tattoos. He likes them, of course; he had them done for himself and for no one else. But he usually keeps them covered up at the Manor, and he’s grown used to that, to pulling his sleeves down automatically to hide any trace of them. His dad has told him, more than once, that he looks like he’s _trying too hard_ , whatever that means. Lucius alternates between calling him a degenerate and informing him that his tattoos are too effeminate, so at least there’s some variety to his criticism. 

Al’s fingers are still tracing the ink on his arm, and it’s innocent and electric all at once. He gives Scorpius a couple of shy looks, checking for permission before leaning in for a kiss, one hand cupping Scorpius’s neck. His other hand is resting on Scorpius’s hip, which — padded and soft as it is — Scorpius’s instinct is to be uncomfortable about. Part of his brain is muttering that he needs to push the hand off, move it elsewhere — as if by doing this, somehow, Albus might not notice that he’s fat. He’s well-acquainted with this voice, but it’s still difficult to ignore.

“You smell nice,” Albus tells him, and Scorpius is so surprised that he splutters. “Sorry, that sounded better in my head. Less creepy.” He grins, looking sheepish and sweet, and _god_ , Scorpius is so in love with him. And that’s the problem, isn’t it?

“New aftershave,” Scorpius says, a little hoarsely, for want of anything else to say. “We can share.”

Albus beams at him like he’s said something wonderful, something incredibly clever and charming and witty. He closes the space between them again, and he’s soft and gentle, agonisingly so, as if he’s trying very hard to hold himself back, to make this situation something manageable. Scorpius’s mind is a stuttering jumble of thoughts. _I’ve missed this, missed you. This is all so fucking complicated. I love you._

“It’s getting late,” he mumbles eventually, and Albus pulls back, brushing Scorpius’s hair out of his eyes.

Albus makes a noise of agreement. “You can stay, if you like.”

Scorpius hesitates for too long, and Albus’s face falls, clearly thinking he’s gone too far and misread the situation. He pulls away, crossing his arms, and to cover up the moment, Scorpius says quickly, “Are you sure Lily won’t mind?” 

Al’s shoulders relax and he says with a laugh, “She’s barely ever here. I think she’s in Berlin this weekend, but don’t quote me on that. We’re housemates on a technicality more than anything.” 

Scorpius still hasn’t really answered, and there’s a part of him that doesn’t plan to stay. Part of him wants to make his apologies and cut the night short, in the spirit of taking things slow, of being _sensible_. But then Albus is leaning into him, demanding closeness again, his fingers tracing Scorpius’s collarbone, and Scorpius very much wants to keep him there.

*

Upstairs in his bedroom, Albus feels abashed when Scorpius exclaims, “This is _amazing_.”

Albus tries to play it cool, though he knows that his and Lily’s townhouse in a fashionable part of Edinburgh probably isn’t your standard mid-twenties accommodation. He rolls his eyes, and pulls Scorpius down to join him on the bed, and they tangle up in each other again. 

“I’ve been to your dad’s house, remember,” he points out. “You have an _ancestral manor_ , Malfoy. We can go to yours next time and I’ll find a dozen rooms bigger than this.”

Scorpius gives a choked sort of laugh. “Yeah, um, you definitely can’t visit the Manor any time soon. Not without filling in a dozen forms and attending a couple of interviews and getting the parole board to declare you aren’t a threat to national security.”

Of course Albus has leapt directly into a conversational minefield. Because he’s had a couple of beers and he’s relaxed and happy and he’s just not thinking.

“Shit, sorry.” He pauses. “Um...” And then his words fail and he's just staring at Scorpius and making the moment far more awkward than it needs to be.

Scorpius coughs awkwardly, averts his gaze. “You can ask me about him, if you want. Lucius.”

“That’s not what I was going for,” Albus says quickly, because it genuinely wasn’t. But now the subject has been broached, maybe he ought to. Maybe Scorpius wants him to. He’s never offered up any information about it, but then again, it’s probably a difficult topic to bring up. 

Has Albus thought about asking? Of course. He’d read about Lucius Malfoy’s release last year, when every wizarding paper had been screaming about it, just as everyone had. It was a few months after they’d broken up, and he had sent Scorpius a letter saying he hoped everything was okay, that he was there if Scorpius needed anything. Scorpius’s response had been very civil, and Albus’s next letter had gone unanswered, and he had taken the hint.

Albus goes with the first question his mind presents him with. “Did you move back to the Manor so you could get to know him?”

Scorpius laughs, strange and choked again. “No. God, no. I moved back in because … well. Technically, _legally_ , I’m sort of ... his guardian.” 

Albus blinks at him.

“Yeah. It’s weird. No one’s very happy about it. But it’s a condition of his release that someone has to be responsible for him. Keep him in check. Liaise with the Ministry about his parole. Stuff like that.”

“Right. Sorry.” Albus, completely thrown, has no idea what the socially appropriate response to all of this is. “I didn’t know it was like that.” 

Scorpius shrugs, and Albus desperately wishes he hadn’t blundered into this moment. There are a hundred more questions that he could ask, but he can feel Scorpius drawing into himself. He says, “Thank you for telling me,” and angles his face upwards for a kiss instead. Scorpius gratefully comes to meet him.

Scorpius has tensed a little, though; Albus can feel it. He was tense earlier in the evening, too, a little uncertain about Albus touching him. Albus had tried to let him take the lead on everything, always watching for signs of permission, to make sure Scorpius was comfortable. 

It’s complicated, and he gets that. He feels it too. All evening, he’s found it difficult not to slip back into how things used to be, easy and comfortable. It’s so tempting, but nothing good will come of thinking like that. They need boundaries here, for this delicate new thing they’re trying to build, and it’s not easy for either of them to decide where those boundaries should be. 

And this is _Scorpius_. He can’t fuck this up with Scorpius, not again.

Once they finally resign themselves to sleep, Albus pulls off his shirt and wriggles out of his jeans. It seems like the obvious thing to do — he’s used to sleeping in just his underwear— but Scorpius had apparated back to the Manor to grab some clothes and returns wearing a tartan pair of pyjama trousers and an oversized t-shirt. He stares at Albus, and then quickly tries to hide the fact that he was staring. Albus realises it’s a while since they saw each other in any state of undress, and maybe he’s misjudged this, maybe this doesn’t fit with the boundaries they’re trying to establish. 

“Oh, er, sorry —”

“It’s fine,” Scorpius says quickly. “You coming to bed?” 

Albus clambers in next to him, throwing an arm across him, nestling into his shoulder. Scorpius lets out a slow breath he seems to have been holding, and shifts around a bit to get comfortable. Albus hadn’t thought he was feeling particularly tired, but the bed is cosy, and Scorpius is warm and soft and so very nice to cuddle with. 

“Night,” Albus murmurs. He presses a kiss to Scorpius’s shoulder, and Scorpius emits a sleepy little huff.

“Sweet dreams, Potter.”

*

Albus is already awake when Scorpius starts to stir the next morning. He can feel the warmth of Albus’s body behind him, pressed flush against him, Albus’s lips at his ear as he murmurs, “Morning.” One of his hands is resting on the side of Scorpius’s belly, tracing gentle circles through his t-shirt. 

Part of Scorpius’s early-morning brain is alert enough to panic, to wonder how long his hand has been there, to demand he hastily push it away. But he’s comfortable, and he’s missed this, so he tries to let himself relax, to snuggle in a little more and listen to Albus’s impression of the small noises he was apparently making in his sleep.

“It was adorable,” Albus assures him, while Scorpius sighs. “D’you want breakfast? Not sure what we’ve got in. Might just be toast and coffee.” He’s still flush against Scorpius, his fingers rubbing up and down Scorpius’s side. His touch is light, casual, easily affectionate. “That all right?” 

“Perfect,” Scorpius tells him, turning over and pulling him down for a kiss. 

Albus bounds out of bed, dressed in only his boxers, and frankly looking too good for words. Just as he had last night, Scorpius feels a little self-conscious about his comfortable pyjama trousers and baggy t-shirt. Maybe he should be treating this more like a new relationship, trying harder to look good, to impress. 

Although, as a snide little voice in his head reminds him, taking more clothes off isn’t likely to achieve that. Perhaps he should’ve put some more _on_? He grabs a jumper before heading downstairs, glad he thought to bring one. 

In the kitchen, Scorpius watches with fond amusement as Al fusses about with bread and butter and coffee and milk as though he’s preparing a lavish feast. “Oh! There are eggs, so I can make you something decent after all. Are eggs okay?”

While Albus scrambles the eggs, Scorpius rests a hand on his waist. He does it casually, unthinking, but Albus looks so pleased by the gesture that Scorpius leaves his hand there, rests his head occasionally against Albus’s shoulder. It’s a very innocent scene, but he’s still rather embarrassed when Lily — apparently not in Berlin — comes upon them like that. 

“Oh.” She surveys them from the doorway, immaculately dressed in a navy pantsuit, hair pulled up into a no-nonsense ponytail. Far too put-together for eight thirty on a Sunday. “Hello, Scorpius.” 

“Morning,” he says, hastily stepping away from Albus, fiddling with the hem of his jumper. 

Al starts dishing out eggs and toast. “Breakfast?” he asks his sister, and she declines, informing them briskly that she ‘must dash’, not specifying where. Due to her outfit, and the fact that she’s Lily Potter, Scorpius assumes it must be somewhere important. She bids them both farewell, but Scorpius doesn’t miss the very pointed looks she is giving her brother, of the _What’s all this, Albus_ and _We’ll talk about this later_ variety. 

After breakfast, there are more kisses, Albus looping his arms around Scorpius’s neck and pressing that strong body against him. It's rather difficult to pull away. It would be so easy to stay, to live in each other's pockets like they always used to. But that's all the more reason not to do it.

“This has been great,” Scorpius tells him carefully. “Really, really great. But…”

“But we shouldn’t spend today together. I know.” Albus runs a thumb over his cheek, and Scorpius is grateful they’re on the same page. “I still want to, though.”

Scorpius admits, “Me too.” His hands have slipped up Albus’s shirt, his touch cool against Albus’s warm skin. “But we should leave it a couple of days. Dinner on Wednesday?”

Albus kisses his forehead, his nose, his lips. “Definitely.”

* 

Back at the Manor, Scorpius is faced with an unexpected and rather alarming sight: the other occupants of the house sitting around the kitchen table eating breakfast. 

This is odd, to say the least. None of them spend much time in each other’s company. They certainly don’t _breakfast_ together like civilized people. Perhaps it’s a new initiative of Narcissa’s to force them to spend time together, and Scorpius will be expected to endure late Sunday breakfasts with the family every week from now on.

Narcissa smiles, waving him over so he can kiss her on the cheek. “There you are, darling. I thought you were still sleeping. I’m sorry, we started without you.”

“Not like you to miss a meal,” Lucius says, turning the page of his newspaper and exchanging a look with Draco. His dad and Lucius might not agree on much, but if there’s one place they’re on the same page, it’s that Scorpius’s weight is a _big problem_. 

Scorpius pointedly ignores him, and tells his grandmother, “I’ve already eaten, thanks.” And when she pesters him for more information, he improvises, “I met a friend for breakfast. Magda.” She’s a good friend — they play a lot of chess together — so it’s a vaguely plausible lie.

Lucius smirks over his newspaper. He drawls, “Good news, Draco. You might have a chance at grandchildren after all.”

Scorpius wants to find it in himself to laugh. That might make it better, he supposes, to acknowledge the absurdity of his aged grandfather sitting at the breakfast table speculating about his sex life. 

When Lucius had first been released, on one of their first, desperately strange attempts to spend time together and be a normal family, Narcissa had mentioned something offhand about Scorpius’s dating history. Lucius had looked him up and down, given Draco an incredulous look. _So, to top it all off, he’s a homosexual? You must be so proud, Draco._

Scorpius knows he shouldn’t say anything. He should plaster on some careful neutrality, drink the cup of tea his grandmother has already handed him, and leave as soon as possible. But instead, he snipes back, “I said I went for breakfast, so I mean I went for breakfast. The next time I mention a person in conversation, I’ll make sure to specify whether or not I’m shagging them, shall I?”

“There’s no need to be like that, darling,” Narcissa says sternly. She pushes a bowl of porridge in his direction, which he determinedly does not eat, focusing on the murky tea in his cup. 

He shouldn’t rise to Lucius’s bait. It just gives the old man more fuel, and it upsets Narcissa, and it embarrasses Draco, and nobody fucking wins. But it’s been a year of this sort of crap. Jokes that aren’t funny, insults that aren’t even creative; a permanent tension in the house, a stench that won’t lift; Narcissa getting weepy and apologising for whatever her husband has done this time. _He didn’t mean it, not like that, my darling. He’s tired, that’s all. He’s unwell. He’s stressed. He loves you so very much, I promise. He’s so happy we can all be here together…_

“I hope Magda is doing well,” Narcissa says, jolting him back to the conversation at the table, awkward and stilted as it is. 

“Yeah, really well,” he says, sitting up a little straighter, dragging himself out of the depths of his tea. He needs to try, for her. Narcissa wants this so desperately, it’s palpable. So he chats about Magda and chess as Narcissa nods and smiles, as Draco prods at a bowl of porridge he’s barely touched, as Lucius rustles the pages of his newspaper, as all of them make the barest effort to pretend they have any desire to be there.

*

After Scorpius apparates home, Albus determines to keep himself busy. He does some housework, reads the newspaper, does the crossword, and goes for a run, just a quick 5K. He feels good afterwards, fresh and invigorated and ready to face the rest of the day. 

And then Lily returns home from her morning appointments, and he thinks that maybe his run should’ve been a lot longer.

“Albus,” she says, arms crossed, standing in the doorway of the living room. 

“Been anywhere nice?” he asks innocently. “You look smart. Big meeting?”

“No, Albus, we are not going to have polite chit-chat and pretend that your ex wasn’t sitting here eating eggs and toast this morning.”

Albus rather feels like he’s been dragged to the headteacher’s office for a lecture about his love life. Lily tends to have that effect on people. She can switch from utterly angelic to icily stern in the blink of an eye.

“Um,” he says helpfully. 

“Are you back together?”

“Yes. Sort of.”

“You don’t seem very sure.”

“We’re just seeing how things go.”

Lily purses her lips at this. 

“What? I thought you liked Scorpius.”

“Of course I like Scorpius. Everyone does. But there is also the small matter of him dumping you.”

“He didn’t _dump_ me,” Albus protests, his ears feeling rather hot. “It was a very mutual breakup … that he just happened to initiate.”

“So you said, which is why I’ve done my best not to hold it against him. But you were a bit of a mess afterwards. Don’t look at me like that, Albus, you know you were. If he hurts you again, I swear I’ll —”

“Not necessary! Honestly!” Albus isn’t keen to hear what creative suffering she might come up with. Particularly as she is well-connected enough to probably have it carried out if she chose. “Thanks, Lil. I think. But he didn’t hurt me then, and whatever happens now, I can handle it. Really, I’m fine.”

She purses her lips again, looking alarmingly like their mother. “Are you bringing him to the ball?”

Albus stares at her.

“Scorpius? To the fundraiser? For the Werewolf Health Trust?” she says, and Lily is involved with so many charities and committees and events that Albus honestly can’t keep up. “Do you need me to get you another ticket?”

“Oh. Um. Probably not. It’s a bit early to throw him into something like that. We’re still figuring things out.”

She pouts, but drops it. “Well, his loss. I’ll save him a ticket just in case. We’ve nearly sold out, you know...”

He listens to her chat animatedly about the huge success she hopes it will be and the impressive guest list of people who are going to be there and how much money she’s expecting they’ll raise. Albus tries to be a supportive brother and dutifully buys tickets to anything she's involved in, but it's not exactly his idea of a good time. 

He remembers dragging Scorpius along to this sort of thing back when they were together. Scorpius in dress robes, all cute and sheepish as if he doesn’t know full well how gorgeous he looks; the two of them attempting to dance and both standing on each other’s feet, sneaking canapes from the buffet table and drinking as much complimentary champagne as is humanly possible. He’s not going to ask Scorpius along to this one — he’s not that cruel — but just knowing that something like that is a possibility again is enough to make Albus smile.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scorpius and his dad discuss a letter from the Ministry. Albus wants to help Scorpius feel better about his body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a warning, this chapter is quite heavy on body image issues.

“God, that was so good. I’m stuffed. Can’t eat another bite. Do you want it? Seems a shame to let it go to waste. Downright criminal.” 

Scorpius watches with some amusement as Albus slumps back in his chair, practically panting, resting a hand on his stomach. “Will I have to carry you home?”

“Would you? You’re a saint.” Albus nods at the remainder of the chocolate cake on the table between them. “Have it, if you want. Really good. Fuck. So full.”

Scorpius shakes his head, taking another sip of his coffee. The food here is good — kind of pricey, not somewhere he’d normally go, but Al insisted they came and insisted on paying. Albus had seemed in the mood to try a bit of everything, giving his best charming smiles to the waitress as he ordered yet another plate of calamari, bowl of truffle fries or pint of beer. 

The cake does look good. A part of him wishes he’d ordered a dessert. He’d assured Albus he was fine with just a coffee, and Albus had grumbled that caffeine after an evening meal was _absolute madness_. But now that Albus has offered the leftovers, it wouldn’t be that bad to have a bite or two, would it? Just to try it?

Scorpius catches the waitress’s eye, and asks for the bill and for the rest of the cake to be wrapped up so Albus can take it home. 

Albus seems a little food-drunk, and Scorpius worries that he’ll forget what he’s doing when the waitress comes back with the card machine. But he manages, and if the waitress notices that he stares rather intently at the little machine, and looks overly pleased with himself when he puts his PIN number in correctly, her smile is bright enough not to show it.

“I’m impressed,” Scorpius tells him fondly as they amble down the street, heading for a safe place to apparate. “You’re getting better with Muggle stuff.” 

“I’ve been practising.” Albus sounds rather sleepy. “It’s pretty convenient, once you get the hang of it. I can see why you like Muggles so much.”

The short walk between the restaurant and the alley they apparate in seems to do Albus some good; for all his groaning and rubbing his belly in the restaurant, he seems fine when they arrive back at his house. Or perhaps he just recovers more quickly from overeating than Scorpius does. 

In the bedroom, he pushes Scorpius down on the bed and they kiss for a while, lazy and slow, before Albus starts unbuttoning his shirt, shucking it smoothly off his shoulders. And there’s another level of admiration for Scorpius, impressed that Albus is the kind of guy who can eat two people’s worth of seafood and sides and chocolate cake and drink a load of beer and still feel comfortable pulling his shirt off afterwards.

“God, you look good,” Scorpius tells him, a little breathless.

Albus’s fingers nudge at the bottom of Scorpius’s shirt, brushing over the lower buttons. _Fuck._ Scorpius squirms. He moves Albus’s hand away, trying to do it casually but firmly. He doesn’t want to make a big deal out of this. He doesn’t want to mess this up. But he also doesn’t want Albus to see him. 

It shouldn’t be difficult. It’s not like Albus is under the impression that he has a six-pack and the illusion will be shattered if he gets a peek under his shirt. It’s not like Albus hasn’t seen him and his lumps and bumps and stretchmarks before. But it feels wrong for him to be here, all soft and out of shape, with Albus all over him looking like _that_.

Albus meets his eye for a moment, but then his lips find Scorpius’s again, with gentle kisses that gradually grow more demanding. His fingers are still dangerously close to the hem of Scorpius’s shirt, but they don’t attempt to move it. He lets Scorpius stay as covered up as he wants without question; he gets on top and kisses him _just like that_ and touches him _just so_ in a way that always gets Scorpius hard, fast, then blows him like a pro. 

Scorpius feels almost winded afterwards, and Albus flops down on the bed next to him with a grin, looking pleased with himself. 

“Fuck,” Scorpius breathes, “you’re so fucking good at that.”

“You’re always so eloquent after you come,” Albus teases. Scorpius bats a hand lazily in his direction, but Albus dodges him easily. 

Before, early on in their relationship when they were still figuring this sort of thing out, when Albus had first come out to him as asexual, these were the moments when Scorpius had felt most uncertain. _But you aren’t getting anything out of it_ , he’d said awkwardly, stumbling over the words. He felt like he should be giving something back. Albus, cheeks flushed, had said, _I get to make sure you have a good time, and then I get to cuddle with you_ , making it sound so reasonable, so obvious. _That’s not nothing._

“You look very pretty too, though, so there’s that,” Albus continues, and usually Scorpius would stutter with embarrassment at words like that, say something gruff and try to move the moment along, but right now he’s too content to object. 

Albus tucks himself in around Scorpius, chin resting on his shoulder. “There’s leftover cake from the restaurant, isn’t there? I’m having cake,” he declares, and Scorpius has almost forgotten how sweet he is when he’s like this, mind leaping from topic to topic. He summons the cake from downstairs and insists on splitting it with Scorpius, kissing him afterwards and tasting of chocolate. 

*

Even after a year of it, returning to Malfoy Manor after a day at his Muggle office job still feels jarring to Scorpius. He’d been so glad to escape the place at eighteen, moving out the summer after he finished Hogwarts, leaving his dad and his grandmother in the crumbling old house that they don’t have the money to maintain but are too pig-headed to move out of. 

“You’re late,” Draco says, by way of greeting, when he steps into the kitchen to get some coffee. “Your grandmother expected you here for dinner.”

Scorpius knows this, and he doesn’t like to let her down. But it’s not as though he can send an owl, and no one in his family would consider owning a telephone. He says truthfully, “I got stuck at work.” 

Things have been hectic recently. He enjoys it, loves being surrounded by Muggles and their technology and growing his knowledge, piece by piece, of how their incredible world works. But it’s tiring too. He has to be so switched on all the time, blagging his way through things he doesn’t understand so he can research them later, covering up mistakes that no Muggle would make, not letting his mind drift when someone calls ‘Scott!’ and he remembers that’s supposed to be him. 

“Don’t make promises to her that you can’t keep,” Draco chides, and Scorpius knows it’s the discourtesy of it that bothers his dad, the lack of proper etiquette. That, and it’s in Draco’s blood to find something to criticise in any given situation. 

Scorpius takes a sip of his coffee. He considers grabbing a biscuit to go with it, but he resists the urge. He usually avoids eating in front of his dad. 

“Did you see the letter?” he asks, shifting the conversation from this risible attempt at small talk to what he knows Draco actually wants to discuss. An owl had arrived for Scorpius that morning, bearing the Ministry’s seal; as a courtesy, he’d left the missive in Draco’s study for him to read. 

“I did.” The words are short, clipped. “What are you planning to tell them?”

Scorpius shrugs. “Depends on what they ask me.”

“Don’t be clever with me. You know what they will ask, and I need to know what you will say. Whether things stay as they are, whether the house arrest is lifted, whether they send him back to Azkaban — whatever happens, this affects all of us.”

Scorpius shifts the mug of coffee in his hands, feeling the gentle burn against his skin. “Loads of people are involved in this review. It’s not my decision. What I say isn’t going to matter that much.”

_But the Ministry asks for your opinion, and they do not ask for mine._ This is written quite plainly on Draco’s face. He sets his jaw, narrows his grey eyes, crosses his wiry arms over his chest. 

He’d worn a similar look the day before Lucius’s release, when Scorpius had signed the papers the parole board thrust before him — when he had legally bound himself to the grandfather he’d never met, accepting him into his custody under house arrest. And the days before that, when their lawyer had told them, “For this to work, it will have to be you, Scorpius.” When their lawyer had not said, _They won’t permit you to do it, Draco, not while the remains of the Dark Mark burns on your forearm; or you, Narcissa, not when you once hosted Voldemort himself in your home and called him Master._

“Is this funny to you?” Draco asks, low and smooth, the way he often is when he thinks he’s holding back the bite in his words. It’s a tone that Scorpius strongly associates with his dad. Back when his mum was alive, this was the time she would step in and defuse the situation, recognising her husband’s stubbornness and her son’s tendency to fly off the handle. Maybe it was inevitable that they would struggle to get along without her to bring them together. 

Scorpius knows his father loves him. He knows it in an academic sort of sense, the same way he knows that the human body is sixty percent water, but it’s not something he feels affects him on a daily basis. Draco has never made a secret of the fact that he would prefer a son who wasn’t chubby and queer and moody and ‘wasting his life with Muggle nonsense’. The situation with Lucius has made things more strained, but it stoked a fire that was already steadily burning.

“Look, I shared that letter with you because I thought you deserved to know. I didn’t do it to get a lecture.” Taking his mug of coffee with him, Scorpius makes for the door. Too often these days, he feels like a teenager storming off to hide in his room.

“ _Scorpius_.”

His dad stares at him for a long moment. He looks tired these days, about as tired as Scorpius feels. He hasn’t shaved in a few days, a greying fuzz covering his pointed chin, and his thinning hair looks dishevelled. 

“I know you don’t like him,” Draco says eventually. 

That stings. Scorpius feels his irritation spilling over. “You think I’ll talk shit about him to the parole board because he’s not grandfather of the year? I want him back in Azkaban because I don’t _like_ him?”

“All I ask is that you be fair to him,” Draco says. “To both of them.”

Scorpius stares at him, grinding his teeth. For a moment, Draco looks as though he might say something more, but then he turns and strides from the kitchen without another word. Scorpius grabs a full packet of biscuits and retreats upstairs to his room.

*

“Just so you know, I’m taking full credit for you and Scorpius,” Teddy informs him, sitting cross-legged on the kitchen counter, waiting for the kettle to boil. He’s sporting flame-red hair today and pointed, elf-like ears, bringing his usual amount of cheerful chaos to Albus’s afternoon.

Albus grins. “Because you got so drunk you couldn’t walk up a flight of stairs unaided?” 

“Precisely. It was all a fiendishly clever matchmaking scheme on my part.”

“Riiiight.” 

Albus hadn’t actually got around to telling his family that things were back on with him and Scorpius. But after Lily bumped into the pair of them over breakfast last week, she spread the news with brutal efficiency, and within five minutes every Potter, Weasley and Lupin on the face of the earth seemed to know about it. Which has saved Albus a lot of effort, at least.

“So,” Teddy says meaningfully, waggling his still-brown eyebrows. “How are things with you two?” 

“Things are good.”

“Good?”

“Yup.”

“Fine!” Teddy waves a hand at Albus as though he is a grave disappointment. “Don’t give me any of the gossip. I’ve got pottery tomorrow with Scorpius so I’ll bully it out of him instead.”

Albus finds it inexpressibly sweet that Scorpius and Teddy are attending pottery classes together, but it’s more fun to tease the former about it than the latter, so he just says, “I think you’re too invested in this, Ted.”

“Of course I’m invested. You two are basically my brothers. I’ve been rooting for you to get back together all this time.”

Albus wrinkles his nose, about to tell Teddy that he appreciates the thought and all, but he should _really_ rethink his phrasing. Then Victoire joins them in the kitchen, pets Teddy’s pointed ears, and the two of them begin bickering cheerfully about what they should have for dinner. Albus allows himself to get lost in their discussion about pasta versus tofu. 

His thoughts turn, as they often do, to Scorpius. They’re seeing each other tonight, just dinner at Albus’s, nothing fancy. He told Teddy things were good between them, and they _are_ , at least as far as Albus is concerned. They’ve fallen into a nice routine of seeing each other a couple of times a week, going out for dinner or walks or comfortable nights in. They’re not rushing things. They’re trying to be open about their thoughts and feelings and all that uncomfortable stuff that doesn’t come naturally to either of them.

One thing is bothering Albus, though, and in the spirit of not ignoring his feelings, he decides to address it that evening. After pesto chicken for dinner and a walk through a picturesque part of Muggle Edinburgh, they’re curled up in bed together, and Albus lets his hand linger on Scorpius’s stomach while they chat. He can feel him tensing, trying to suck in a little. 

It’s been obvious for a while now that Scorpius isn’t entirely comfortable around him, which isn’t a complete surprise. He always used to be self-conscious about his weight, bouts of insecurity flaring up in ways that Albus couldn’t always predict.

It’s not as though Albus hasn’t noticed that Scorpius is a bit heavier than he used to be. Mostly because he spends a lot of time looking at Scorpius and very much enjoying what he sees. And he feels it, too, a bit more belly pressing against his own, a bit more softness to squeeze at his hips. He’s clearly self-conscious about it, and it’s _so Scorpius_ to feel bad about something like that even when he looks so bloody good. 

But these are dangerous waters to tread in. Albus knows that, and he wants to do this right. Because Scorpius will be desperately uncomfortable, and will either joke about it or refuse to engage with it entirely. So Albus needs to be gentle without being meek and persistent without being an arse.

“It’s getting late,” Scorpius says abruptly, after a moment of Albus failing to remove his hand. 

Albus gives him a minute to turn off the lights and get comfortable, before he shuffles in closer, letting his fingers run across Scorpius’s side. 

“At some point,” he says, plucking gently at the fabric of his t-shirt, “would you take this off?”

He feels that tension flare up in Scorpius again. 

“Sure,” he says, too quickly, an automatic response to get Albus to shut up and move away from this topic he doesn’t want to dwell on.

Albus tries to give him a moment, watching him in the darkness. _I want to see you properly, I want to touch you properly. If you don’t want that, I’ll respect it. But I think you do want it. You’re just scared of what I think, just like you used to be back at Hogwarts._

Keeping his hands to himself this time, he says quietly, “You know I think you look good, right? Really good.” Scorpius doesn’t answer, so he adds, “And it’s not as though I don’t know what you look like. Unless you’ve grown scales or something under there, you’re not gonna surprise me.”

Scorpius still doesn’t say anything. Albus watches his dark form as he pushes back his hair, adjusts the position of his pillow. _I love you_ , he thinks, and it’s so obvious, so easy, but he knows he can’t say it aloud. It’s too soon. 

Finally, voice a little muffled, Scorpius says, “Wings.”

“Hm?”

“No scales. But I’ve got a small pair of wings. I hide them really well. Kind of self-conscious about them.”

Albus snorts. He runs a hand over Scorpius’s back where, presumably, his wings would be. “Well, now I’m really looking forward to seeing this.” 

*

When his next date with Albus rolls around, Scorpius is nervous as hell. He changes his shirt three times before going back to the first one. He tries not to panic about the fact that Albus is expecting to rip it off him later tonight.

He’s determined, this time, not to make a big deal out of it. If Albus insists on seeing his fat gut out in the open, so be it. If Albus never wants to see him again after seeing said gut in all its glory — well, so be it on that front, too.

It’s not as though Albus hasn’t seen him shirtless before. It’s just he’s never been this fat before. And, sure, other people have seen him in partial states of undress at this size, or thereabouts. But none of them were Albus, so it didn’t matter anywhere near as much.

Albus meets him after work and they go for drinks at a bar round the corner from the university, full of students and probably overpriced. They spend the rest of the evening watching a movie, because Al is completely useless with Muggle culture sometimes and has never seen Lord of the Rings. “It’s amazing, but also hilarious,” Scorpius tells him as he sets up Fellowship on his work laptop, seeing as Albus doesn’t own a TV. “Gives you an idea of what Muggles think magic is like.”

Albus is tactile during the film, as he always is, snuggling in closer for a hug, running his hands through Scorpius’s hair, resting his feet in Scorpius’s lap. But Scorpius hasn’t forgotten what they talked about last time, and he knows Albus hasn’t either. He also knows Al would never try and force him to do anything. If he turns around and says it’s not happening, he’s not comfortable, he’s actually going to wear three jumpers and a poncho to bed, thank you very much, then he knows Al will accept it. But it’s hardly an unreasonable thing for Albus to have asked. Scorpius is the one being weird here. 

Upstairs, Albus strips off quickly, efficiently, as though it’s the obvious thing to do. It would be, Scorpius supposes, if you look like Albus does — which is, for the record, absolutely bloody _amazing_. 

Albus’s touch is very gentle, not demanding anything, not trying to hurry him. Scorpius feels like a teenager who’s shitting himself about his first kiss. Or a teenager shitting himself about undressing in front of the hot guy he’s dating, which was 100% Scorpius at eighteen, and apparently it’s Scorpius at twenty-three, too.

As Albus’s hand edges its way downwards, coming to rest on his stomach, Scorpius blurts out, “I know I gained more weight, all right?”

It’s embarrassing. The words sit in the air between them, small and pitiful. Albus doesn’t say anything, just looks at him, his green eyes soft. He also doesn’t remove his hand from where it’s sitting on the curve of Scorpius’s stomach. Albus always used to touch him like this — made a point of it, perhaps, as if he might be able to forge a positive association between belly rubs and kisses, as if that might make Scorpius feel better about himself. 

Scorpius lumbers on, articulate as a hippo. “I know I’m bigger than I was before. When we were together. Even bigger. You don’t need to be nice about it.”

Albus’s brows furrow. “You don’t want me to be nice to you?”

“Not about this. You don’t have to. Fuck, Al. You don’t have to pretend that you —”

“What do you think I’m pretending about?” He strokes along Scorpius’s jaw, looking so damned earnest. “That I think you look amazing?”

That extinguishes some of the bitterness Scorpius had been planning to come out with. He lets Albus lean in to kiss him again, soft and sweet and ever so careful. But as Albus’s touch starts to migrate, some of that writhing uncertainty flares up again. Scorpius squirms as Albus’s hand moves to his chest, puffy and soft, the nipple peaking at his touch.

Scorpius grabs his hand before it can wander anywhere else. “Is this the part where you grope all my flabby bits and assure me that you like me anyway?” he says weakly, trying to make it sound like a joke, not quite hitting the mark. 

Albus tugs his hand out of Scorpius’s grip and lets it fall to his side. “Please don’t do that.”

“What?”

“That thing where you try to joke and act like it doesn’t matter.” 

Scorpius swallows the next self-deprecating remark he’d been planning to come out with. The whole thing feels so petty, so pathetic. _Your gorgeous boyfriend is telling you he likes you as you are. What more do you want?_

Albus says, “I like how you look. I always have. I thought you knew that.” He hesitates, looks like he might say something more, but then he swallows it, folds in on himself.

Scorpius does know it, or he should, anyway. Albus has told him enough times. Scorpius has made a big deal out of this far more times than he should have, always forcing Albus to reassure him — Albus, who is beautiful and talented and kind and incredible, who could have anyone he wants and for some reason still chooses Scorpius, who deserves better than the moody, anxious crap that Scorpius throws at him.

“I know what you’re trying to do. Thank you. Really. Let’s just go to sleep,” Scorpius says curtly, and he tries to ignore Al’s expression, frustration mixed with disappointment. 

He shuffles as far towards the edge of the bed as he can go, putting as much space as possible between them, and makes sure every part of him is covered by the blankets.

*

The next morning, Scorpius finds himself awake before Albus. He lies there for a moment, looking sideways at Al, who is sprawled on the bed, face scrunched up in sleep. 

Scorpius gets out of bed as quietly as he can, wincing as he steps on a squeaky floorboard. He pads down the hallway to the bathroom, splashes some water on his face, brushes his teeth. He looks at himself in the mirror, runs an encouraging hand through his hair where it’s lying a little flat. He lets his gaze linger on where his t-shirt is starting to strain across his middle, on where the pudginess of his chest is only too obvious through the material.

He’s not thrilled with how things went last night. That wasn’t what he’d planned. That’s not how he wants to make Albus feel. It’s not what he wants for their new start, when they’re supposed to be finding a new way forward together rather than falling back into old patterns, old insecurities.

Back in Albus’s room, he closes the door as quietly as he can, clambers carefully back into bed. Albus stirs. Before he can lose his nerve, Scorpius shucks off his shirt, tossing it onto the floor by the bed. He lies back down, draping an arm over Albus. It feels good. He’d told himself he didn’t miss the skin-on-skin contact, that it didn’t matter that much, but _god_ was he wrong.

“Mm. M’awake.” Albus is making sweet early-morning noises, starting to stir. “Hey.”

Scorpius presses a kiss to his shoulder. “I’m not sure this counts as being awake, Al.”

“Very awake,” Albus mumbles, flopping over to face him, blinking sleepily. Then he blinks a little more, eyes suddenly wide open. “Oh. _Hello_.” He reaches out tentatively, then runs a hand over Scorpius’s side. “Lucky me.”

Scorpius clears his throat. “Yeah?”

“ _Yeah_.”

The look on Al’s face, the broad smile and the brightness in his eyes, feels good. The hand pulling him closer, resting on the small of his back, feels good too. 

“So we’re spending all morning in bed, right?” Albus murmurs.

Scorpius smiles. “Sounds good to me.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scorpius has a bad morning, courtesy of Lucius. Albus has a bad day, featuring Quidditch, his cousin Rose, and a conversation with Scorpius about sex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Albus has a difficult mental health day in this chapter. It also explores some insecurities he has about being asexual, which includes anti-ace sentiments being expressed by another character.
> 
> This fic is definitely intended as ace-positive overall (for one thing, I identify as ace, so all the love to any fellow aces out there). But in case this is something you'd rather avoid, I wanted to warn for it appropriately.
> 
> Also, just as a disclaimer - there is, of course, no 'correct' way to be ace and no 'correct' way to be in a relationship as an ace person. This fic is just exploring one character's experience of it, and everyone's experience is different and valid <3

At Albus’s next practice with the Wimbourne Wasps, Spinnet asks him for a quick word. Kettering and Dawson shoot him overly cheerful looks, the kind that suggest they want to look sympathetic but are worried about being patronising. He forces a smile to try and show them he’s not bothered, and follows Spinnet into her office.

Alicia is a very decent person, and a very good coach, and he knows it’s her job to do stuff like this. Still, as the door closes behind him, the air suddenly feels stale and heavy, the space small and suffocating. 

Spinnet offers him an oatcake and a cup of tea, which he declines. “How are you doing, Potter?”

“Fine,” he says automatically, though he knows this isn’t a generic chat about his well-being.

Spinnet nods, and her expression is carefully neutral as she says, “Good to hear. The Healers haven’t cleared you to fly yet.”

“No.” The word feels like a stone on his tongue.

“Do you want them to?”

“Of course!”

“Then why have you skipped your last two appointments with Healer Elvari?”

He feels his chest tighten. “I just — I needed to reschedule —” 

Spinnet sighs. “Look, you’re a great Keeper. You’re a valued member of the team.”

“But there’s only so long I can sit on the sidelines without playing,” Albus supplies dully. 

“No, Al,” she says, far too gently, being far nicer than she needs to be when he’s being so useless to her and to the team. “That’s not what I’m saying. But I can’t put you back out there until the Healers say it’s okay. And that’s not going to happen if you aren’t willing to work with them.” 

He finds his mind clouding as Spinnet starts discussing their options, how she’ll call the Healers in for another assessment, if there was anyone in particular he liked working with before, if there’s anyone he’d feel most comfortable talking to. 

When he steps out of her office, the air feels sharp and fresh and his lungs want to burst with the force of it. He changes quickly, avoiding the cheery conversation of his teammates. Brushing off their invitations to the pub, he apparates home.

*

One of the few things Scorpius enjoys about living at the Manor are the undeniably beautiful grounds he has access to. His ancestors might all have been bigots and racists, but they certainly knew how to landscape a garden. 

It’s not looking its best these days, of course, without the house elves or the gold or the inclination to keep it in perfect shape. But the bones of grandeur are still there in the disused fountains, the crescents carved out for flowerbeds, the strict alignment of the misshapen hedges, a shadow of their former sculpted selves. 

Scorpius is in the habit of taking a walk through the grounds first thing before work. It’s a good way to clear his mind and helps him mentally prepare for the day ahead. This morning, like most mornings, he heads back to the house at a leisurely pace, refreshed and relaxed and ready to face the day.

When he steps through the back door, Lucius is in the kitchen, and any sense of calm immediately evaporates. He’s hovering in one corner, slightly stooped, a corporeal Dementor spreading misery with every breath. 

“Scorpius,” his grandfather says, somehow managing to drawl over every syllable. “I’m pleased to see you getting some exercise. Though you’ll have to try harder than that if you hope to lose any weight.”

Scorpius sees little point in arguing that he’s perfectly aware his morning amble doesn’t qualify as a strenuous workout, that sometimes a walk is just a walk and that’s all right, that it’s none of Lucius’s fucking business anyway.

Then he looks at Lucius properly, and realises what he’s holding.

“That’s mine,” he says coolly, his heart juddering in his chest. He holds out his hand in a way that he hopes is firm and commanding, that leaves no room for refusal, that will force Lucius to return his wand and they can both pretend this never happened.

Lucius meets his eye like he _knows_ , like he is perfectly aware of how much Scorpius is panicking. He begins to twist the wand through his long, pale fingers. 

Scorpius can’t believe he’s been so careless. He’s used to being without his wand; for most wizards, it would be like misplacing a limb, but he spends eight hours a day with it stowed firmly in his bag while he’s at work. In this house, though, he needs to be more careful. Lucius hasn’t owned a wand in thirty years, and he very much should not be holding one.

Scorpius keeps his tone cool. “You’d be in trouble if Grandmother knew you’d had it. Or if the Ministry did.”

“So would you,” Lucius purrs. “But there’s no harm, is there, just in holding it?” He lies it flat on his outstretched palms, appraising it. “Elm, isn’t it? Just as mine was. And the core?”

“Unicorn hair. Are you finished?” There’s impatience in his tone now, which is a mistake. He shouldn’t give Lucius even a hint of satisfaction. “Some of us have jobs to go to.”

Lucius’s eyes flash. “Of course,” he says smoothly. He holds out the wand, and Scorpius snatches it back. “Your little job amongst the Muggles.”

He’s by the doorway, close enough that Scorpius would have to push past him to leave. So he stays where he is, and Lucius continues his performance, revelling in his captive audience. 

“Narcissa tells me you hope to work at the Ministry one day. In _Muggle relations_. A strange aspiration. And a futile one, too. You must know that. No Malfoy for a hundred years will be permitted a desk at the Ministry.” 

Scorpius doesn’t have the patience for this sort of dramatics so early in the morning. He’s spent enough long, excruciating evenings listening to Lucius whine about the ruin of the Malfoy name, as if he isn’t responsible for the entirety of it. He finds plenty of reason to blame Draco, Scorpius, the Ministry, Harry Potter and all his allies, and it’s in these deluded moments that Scorpius gets a horrible glimpse of the Death Eater he used to be. 

Scorpius takes a step towards the door, and Lucius raises an eyebrow. Then Narcissa’s voice comes from behind him, and he steps aside to allow her into the kitchen.

“What a lovely morning.” Narcissa’s bright smile doesn’t match her tired eyes, or the tension in the room. “Shall I make us breakfast? What can I get you, darling?”

“Sorry, can’t stay,” Scorpius tells her. “I’ll be late for work.” He forces a smile for her and steps past his grandparents, hurrying up the stairs to his room, clutching his wand very tightly in his hand.

*

Sore and sweaty from practice — well, not a real practice, he should really stop calling it that, he’s hardly _practising with the team_ if he cloisters himself away in the gym while they’re all out on their brooms, training properly, playing the game for real — Albus returns home to find Lily drinking tea with Rose. 

He paints on a smile and tries to do a convincing impression of someone who is happy to see her. 

“You’re looking well,” Rose tells him, which seems like an odd thing to say, making her seem twenty years older than she is. “I hear your team won a match last week?”

He appreciates the gesture and attempts small-talk with her, with Lily gamely leading the way. But still, this is awkward. 

Albus has a lot of cousins, and while they’re all great in their own way, he isn’t close with every single one of them. That’s only to be expected when your family is the size of a small country. But things are weirder with Rose, because they _did_ used to be close — they were in the same year at Hogwarts, had hung out despite being in different houses, had sat in the same carriage on the train for every single journey to and from school for the holidays. Until their final year, that is, when they had what Rose still refers to as ‘a little misunderstanding’.

In a stilted pause, Lily swoops in and says, “I’m off for dinner with Fred and Roxy in a bit. You’re both welcome to join us.” 

They both decline; Rose gives some excuse about visiting her parents, and Albus already has plans to spend the evening with Scorpius. He’s especially glad of it tonight. It’s what he needs after the stress of today, the crushing embarrassment he feels every time he shows up to practice and lets the team down, all the unspoken frustration from his teammates, the disappointment from Spinnet.

“Say hi to Malfoy for me.” Lily gives a good-humoured smirk. 

Rose takes a sip of her tea. “I was a bit surprised to find out you two were back together, to be honest, Albus.”

“Um. Okay.” Albus isn’t sure he wants Rose’s opinion on the matter, frankly. 

She ploughs on. “Well. I know a few people who were on the Working with Muggles programme with him, you see. You know he slept around a bit, don’t you, while you were broken up?”

“Don’t be a dick, Rose,” Lily tells her sharply.

“Consenting adult has sex with other consenting adults,” Albus says dryly, even as his insides shift uncomfortably. “Not much of a story there.”

“I thought it might matter to you, though,” Rose persists. “Because of … you know.” There’s a curt pause, in which Albus sets his jaw and Lily starts to look uncomfortable. “This sort of thing is a problem for you.”

At seventeen, when Albus realised there was a word for how he was feeling — _asexual: experiences little or no sexual attraction_ — and he’d nearly cried with relief that it wasn’t just him, that there were other people who felt the same way he did, he’d been desperate to share the news with someone. He plucked up the courage to tell Rose, his favourite cousin, one of his closest friends, who was smart and understanding and always gave great advice. 

_Oh, Al, it’s okay,_ she’d said with a smile. _Everyone’s a bit nervous about their first time._

The more he tried to explain himself, the less she seemed to understand.

_There’s probably something you can do about it. I’ll look into it for you. Have you been to see a Healer?_

_You’re dating someone? Malfoy? But how does that work?_

_If you don’t feel anything with Scorpius, then surely he’s not right for you. With the right person, I’m sure you’d feel different._

Eventually, he got tired of her unwanted opinions. He got tired of trying to explain himself to someone who wasn't willing to listen.

Albus stares at her. He feels a surge of annoyance, and a curdling of embarrassment in his stomach, and when she gives a little shrug of her shoulders, he snaps, “We barely speak these days, and you’re just diving straight in and calling it my _problem_? Which it’s not, by the way. Not a problem.” 

“Right, well, thank you for stopping by,” Lily cuts in, swiping Rose’s half-full mug off the table. “Thanks for picking up your tickets. We’ll see you at the ball next week.”

Rose nods to the pair of them and accepts the floo powder Lily thrusts at her, while Albus clatters about in the kitchen, aggressively making himself a cup of tea. 

“Ignore her,” Lily tells him. “She’s always at her worst when she thinks she’s genuinely being helpful.”

Albus forces a smile and wishes her good luck when she flits away to her latest meeting in a flurry of Chanel. Once he’s alone in the house, he stands in the shower until the water runs cold. 

_She’s right, you know,_ a voice in his head informs him. _She’s right she’s right she’s right she’s right —_

*

Later, while Scorpius is making enchiladas in his kitchen, the conversation with Rose is all that Albus can think about. He knows Scorpius can tell that something is off, because he’s retreated into himself a little, wearing one of those carefully neutral expressions that give away his nerves, to Albus at least.

“Could you do the cheese?” Scorpius asks him, standing at the hob, stirring the sauce for the enchiladas. Albus almost falls over himself in his hurry to find the grater. 

On the one hand, he doesn’t give a damn what Scorpius has been up to in the last eighteen months. They’ve talked about it a little, and Scorpius has alluded to dating other people, and Albus has mentioned the two people he went on unsuccessful dates with. But they haven’t gone into detail. Scorpius would, he thinks, if Albus asked him to. But he hasn’t asked. 

It’s not his business. They were broken up. Scorpius doesn’t have to explain himself. Albus isn’t sure he would want to hear it, in any case.

Anyway, how Scorpius was with other people has nothing to do with how he is with Albus. Albus is happy in himself. His sexuality is an aspect of himself that he accepts, and that he’s proud of. And Scorpius doesn’t mind. He has assured Albus plenty of times that he doesn’t, and Albus has always believed him.

But maybe things are different now. Maybe it was easier for Scorpius to be understanding about it when Albus was the only person he’d properly dated. Maybe now, after all those months apart, all those new opportunities, he feels different. 

Albus blurts out, “Can we have a weird conversation?”

Scorpius raises his eyebrow, tastes a spoonful of the sauce for the enchiladas. “Encouraging start there, Al.”

Albus gives a strange squeaky laugh. He looks down at the cheddar he’s supposed to be grating. “I think things are going pretty well. With us.”

Scorpius looks rather nonplussed, wooden spoon hovering in midair, dripping sauce onto the counter. He cleans it up swiftly with his wand. “Yeah. Really well, I’d say.”

“Okay. Great.” That’s a relief. That’s a good start. He tries, “If there’s anything missing, I hope you’d tell me. I hope you know you can be honest with me about it.”

Scorpius’s brows are furrowed. He sets the wooden spoon down. “What do you think is missing?”

“If this … if it isn’t enough for you, that’s okay. I can be flexible, if that’s something you want. We could be, um, _open_.”

Scorpius blinks at him. “Open?”

Albus isn’t good at talking about sex. Never has been. He’d like to blame it on being ace, but plenty of other ace people seem to manage perfectly well, so it’s probably more a result of natural awkwardness, a sheltered upbringing and a general repressed Britishness. So this conversation hasn’t really begun yet and he’s already getting tongue-tied. 

“Yeah. If you… er...” _Get it together, Albus._ He steels himself, looks Scorpius dead in the eye, and says, “If you want to sleep with other people, that would be okay.”

Scorpius looks immediately embarrassed, his cheeks flushing. He chokes out, “I… what?”

“I wouldn’t mind. As long as it was just sex and nothing, you know, relationshipy. Obviously we’d need to establish clear rules and boundaries, which I hear is the best way to do it. I could ask my cousin Lucy and her boyfriends for advice — actually I think they’re exclusive so that’s not really the same, but still —”

“Al,” Scorpius interrupts him. “Do you want to see other people? As well as me? Is that what this is about?”

“No!” he says quickly, aware that his own face is just as red as Scorpius’s now, feeling woefully awkward.

“There’s nothing wrong with it, if you do. It’s just not something I realised you were interested in —”

“It’s not. Really. But I thought it might work for us. It might ... help.” He’s looking at Scorpius, desperate for him to just _get it_ so that Albus can stop talking. “So that you’re not, um, missing out. So you don’t have to compromise for me.”

Rose’s voice is juddering in his head again. _This sort of thing is a problem for you._

Scorpius has never been like Rose. He’d always heard what Albus tried to tell him, always believed him, always respected it. He’d given Albus whatever time he needed to work out what he wanted and what he didn’t and how he felt about it.

But still. It’s a compromise, isn’t it? It’s something Scorpius wants that Albus is never going to be able to give him.

“Al.” Scorpius looks at him for a moment that feels inexpressibly long. He swallows. “Where is this coming from? We’ve talked about this. It doesn’t bother me. I thought you knew that.”

“It’s a while since we talked about it, though. Things might’ve changed.” And then, for some godforsaken reason, he says, “I’m sure you weren’t exactly living as a monk in the time we were broken up.”

He’d said it as a joke, partly. But he can’t blame Scorpius for looking embarrassed, for crossing his arms in defence. Because there was a part of him that meant it seriously, too, that needs to address the uncertainty gnawing away at him. He needs to understand things from Scorpius’s point of view, needs to know that he’s still okay with who Albus is and what he is willing to give.

Scorpius snaps, “What do you want me to say? That I didn’t date anyone in the last eighteen months? That I didn’t sleep with anyone?”

“I know you did.”

“Oh you do, do you? I’m not going to apologise for stuff I did when we weren’t together.”

“I’m not asking you to.”

“Well it sounds like you are.” Scorpius grabs the wooden spoon again and stirs the sauce with unnecessary vigour, glaring down into the pan.

Albus stares at him. Opens his mouth. Closes it again. This definitely isn’t going as planned, and there’s a twitching behind his eyes that he can’t ignore, and _fuck_ , he wishes he’d never started this conversation. He mutters something about needing fresh air, and shuts the kitchen door behind him.

*

Scorpius takes a cloak outside with him as an icebreaker. It might technically be heading towards summer, but the evenings are still cool. It’s been drizzling for most of the day so there’s a damp chill in the air, and Albus is just in shirtsleeves. 

He’s leaning against the wall of the house, gazing out over the neat little garden. He takes the cloak when Scorpius offers it to him. “Thanks.”

“I’m sorry for snapping,” Scorpius tells him. “I was embarrassed and I didn’t handle it well.”

Albus scuffs the lawn with his shoe. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

“I know.” Scorpius is a bit thrown by how Albus is reacting. He’d thought they both needed a moment to cool off and then everything would be fine, but Albus is clearly agitated, foot tapping an uneven rhythm against the grass, eyes darting around, looking everywhere but at Scorpius. It’s a long time since he’s seen Albus this upset about anything.

Scorpius tries, “I appreciate what you were saying. Thank you for saying it. For offering. But I’m really happy with how things are. I don’t need things to be any different.”

When Albus doesn’t say anything, Scorpius tries, “I’m not missing out, or giving anything up. That’s not how I see it.” This is so blindingly obvious to Scorpius; he almost can’t believe he has to say it. He was so sure that Albus knew this. “Al. I get to have _you_. Nothing about that is a compromise.”

Albus still isn’t looking at him, gaze fixed to the ground. His breath comes out in a strange rattle through his teeth. Scorpius steps towards him, holds out an arm, murmurs, “Hey,” and that’s all it takes. Albus falls against him, and Scorpius holds him tight, strokes his hair, tells him it’s all okay, it doesn’t matter, everything is okay. 

“I’m being stupid,” Albus mumbles eventually. “Overreacting. Sorry.” 

“You’re not. It’s fine. I just — I didn’t realise it bothered you this much. If you’ve been worried about this…”

“I haven’t. It doesn’t. It’s been a weird day. Sorry.”

Scorpius adjusts the cloak round his shoulders where it’s starting to slip. “You hungry? We can finish making dinner. I’m pretty sure enchiladas solve all of life’s problems.”

That earns him a weak smile, and after some enchiladas with an enormous amount of cheese, Albus seems to perk up a little. Scorpius gently probes about his _weird day_ and exactly what that entails. He’s suitably outraged when Albus explains his conversation with Rose (“She said _what_ to you?”) and shows general sympathy when Albus says he had a rough time at Quidditch practice.

But he can’t show _specific_ sympathy because he still isn’t really sure what the problem is.

Albus talks about still not being able to fly, which is frustrating. He says he feels like he’s letting the team down, which is difficult. But he doesn’t really _talk_ about any of it, and Scorpius has the distinct impression that he’s missing something. He doesn’t even know what injury Al has that he’s still getting over, because Albus has never talked about it. Whatever it was, the Healers patched him up, and he seems fine physically. And it’s only now that Scorpius realises how deftly Albus has dodged the issue whenever Scorpius has tried to ask about it before.

“If you have any other, um, weird days,” he says, and Albus’s face goes all pinched, “you can tell me, you know. We can talk about it, if you want. If that would help.”

“Thanks,” Albus mutters, and Scorpius knows he’s still holding back. But he leans his head against Scorpius’s shoulder, and Scorpius pets his soft hair, and for now, this is enough.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Malfoys discuss an article in Witch Weekly. Albus gets a lecture from James.

Unfortunately, the photo is objectively funny. 

In the background, Scorpius is still half-inside the shop, mostly concealed by Albus’s billowing cloak, a flash of white-blond hair and comically raised eyebrows just about visible. Albus, in the foreground, is looking directly at the camera, strongly resembling a startled and especially gormless woodland creature.

_Albus Potter and the Malfoy heir spotted in Diagon Alley_

“It’s generous of them to describe you as an _heir_ ,” Lucius drawls, rustling the magazine unnecessarily, as if Scorpius might somehow have missed it. “What, pray, do they think you are inheriting? A rotten old house crumbling into its foundations? The fortune your father frittered away these last years?”

Scorpius suspects the wording is intentionally mocking, because it’s Witch Weekly, which is too poorly written for actual humour, so they settle for petty insults instead. 

“Is Potter under the impression that you’re a man of means?” Lucius muses. He shakes his head, long silver hair flapping limply, angular face pulled into a sneer. “If he thinks there’s a sickle left for him to wheedle out of you, he will be sorely disappointed.” 

Draco scoffs, “No one named Potter needs to worry about gold these days. You’re behind the times, old man.”

“I think it’s wonderful news,” Narcissa announces. “Albus is such a lovely boy. It was a terrible shame when he broke things off with you.” 

Scorpius forces a smile, turns the page of his book. He’s been struggling to get his head around Muggle social networking sites, which his colleagues reference quite a lot in conversation. He checked out a library book on the subject, and from the strange look the librarian gave him, it’s probably aimed at Muggle pensioners rather than twentysomething wizards. 

He should probably have mentioned to at least one person in his family that he was seeing Albus again. It’s not as though he’s been keeping it a _secret_. His friends know, and they’re all happy for him. But telling his family is an unpleasantness he just kept putting off. He knew his grandmother would be pleased. He knew Draco would be pleased too, but in a more cynical, more self-serving way. He knew Lucius would be mocking.

“Sources close to the Wimbourne Wasps Keeper, 23, confirm he has reunited with _former flame_ Scorpius Malfoy,” Lucius reads, and Scorpius heartily wishes the ground would swallow him up. “After the _lovebirds_ were sighted in Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, hearts broke everywhere at the news that Albus Potter is off the market.” 

Scorpius keeps his eyes fixed on his book, attempting to pretend that this is anything other than soul-crushingly embarrassing. He _knew_ they should’ve stuck to their Muggle-places-only policy. But when Al had said, “I just need to pop in on Uncle Ron — just two minutes —”, Scorpius hadn’t thought anything of it. 

As it turns out, two minutes in Diagon Alley is enough for someone to freak out over Al Potter.

He had never expected to date someone famous, which Albus is, objectively. Sure, Scorpius’s family are well known, but it’s very much not the same thing. So it’s odd, now, having this blaring reminder that people are interested in Albus, and interested in him by association. There had been an unpleasant period when, fresh out of Hogwarts, it felt like the papers were captivated by every damn thing he and Albus did. _The saviour’s son and a Death Eater’s spawn are presumably shagging — read all about it!_ was what every headline might as well have read. 

“You make an odd pair,” Lucius continues, apparently having more opinions about Scorpius’s life that he’s simply bursting to share. “A Malfoy and a Potter. And he’s a professional athlete, you say?” His eyes rake Scorpius up and down, anything but subtle. 

“Let’s take a walk in the garden, my love,” Narcissa says softly, standing up, extending a hand to her husband. “It’s such a nice day.” 

Lucius ignores her. “Surely he must have beautiful young people throwing themselves at him all the time? You must have hidden charms, Scorpius. Very well hidden, at that.”

He shouldn’t do it. Scorpius knows he shouldn’t do it. But he’s tired of this, so fucking _sick_ of it. Channelling every effort into keeping his tone cool and controlled, he says, “I’ll make sure to be extra charming when I visit the Ministry next week.”

He ignores the way Draco’s eyes flash, telling him to keep his mouth shut.

“Oh, did I not mention it? Just a small meeting with Susan Bones and the rest of the parole board. They’ve asked me to provide a statement for your annual review.” 

He turns the page of his book again. He doesn’t look up, and he doesn’t need to; he can feel Lucius’s white-hot gaze boring into him.

“I wonder what I’ll tell them,” Scorpius says quietly.

*

Albus is used to awkward photos of himself in national publications. The ones of him in the Daily Prophet are usually quite flattering, or at least neutral and professional. Team photos of him and the Wimbourne Wasps, that sort of thing. His mum works for the Prophet as a sports correspondent, so anyone who printed gossipy nonsense about him would have Ginny Potter to explain themselves to. 

But the lovely people at Witch Weekly have no such qualms. They cheerfully post pictures of Albus doing his weekly shop; of Lily sunbathing topless in Saint-Tropez; of James under the headline _James Sirius Potter: making politics sexy_. 

It’s James, as it happens, who alerts him to this latest photo. A lot of people in Albus’s family appear regularly in the wizarding papers, and most of them have the good sense to ignore it. Then there's James, who curates his media presence avidly, determined to ensure he is creating the right impression. 

“Have you seen yourself?” James’s head demands, bobbing in the flames in Albus’s fireplace. “You and Scorpius? Snapped outside Wheezes?”

“Snapped — _what_?” 

“I’ll come over,” James announces. “Two minutes, Albus.”

“No need, honestly — _James_ —” 

But he’s already pulled his head out of the fireplace. Lily, curled up in one of the armchairs, summons herself a glass of wine and sips it gleefully.

“Don’t you have somewhere important to be?” Albus asks her grumpily.

“More important than spending time with my beloved brothers?” She raises an eyebrow. “Certainly not.”

When James arrives, he’s wearing a bloody suit, because James is the sort of person who wears a suit everywhere. The exception is photo ops where he is intentionally trying to look casual, in which case he wears a polo and overly expensive trainers. 

“I have no desire to pry into your private matters,” James begins, without so much as a hello. “But as much information as you can give would be very helpful. It will allow us to get a handle on the situation.”

“There isn’t really a _situation_ —” Albus tries.

“Nothing is inherently a problem, you understand,” James continues, though his tone very much suggests otherwise. “I, for one, am very happy for you and Scorpius. I support you and your decisions, Albus, unreservedly. All I ask is that you are transparent with us. As long as we are in the know about everything, we can prepare and we can mitigate as required.”

Albus has absolutely no time for James’s Very Important Person voice. He's certain that if James were twenty years older and didn’t have such a twinkling smile, he would be everything people hate about politicians. 

Lily chimes in, “I think he’s asking about your _intentions_ with Scorpius, Al. Now that you’re _courting_ him. Will there be an official engagement? We can’t have you two scoundrels eloping, that would cause quite the scandal —” 

“If you would stop trying to be funny and allow me to finish,” James says curtly.

“Look, I know appearances are important to you right now,” Albus tells him, “but what I do isn’t going to have any impact on your precious campaign. I don’t think anyone is really that interested in what Scorpius and I are up to.”

“Oh, of course not,” James scoffs. “Don’t be naive, Albus. Individually, the two of you are more interesting than you’ve ever been —”

Albus isn’t sure that a failing Quidditch career and a criminal grandfather qualify as _that_ interesting, but then, he isn’t the best judge of these things. 

“— so now word is out that you’re back together, the attention is inevitable. What we need to do is ensure it is the _right kind_ of attention. Take ownership of the narrative. You see?”

“Not really,” Albus says warily, pretty sure he isn’t going to like wherever James takes this conversation.

James clears his throat. “I hear you already have tickets for Lily’s next fundraiser.”

Albus groans, now _very certain_ that he doesn’t like where James is going with this. 

Lily looks outraged. “The ball is not about self-promotion, James, it’s about supporting an important cause. Unless you getting that seat on the Wizengamot is more important than werewolf healthcare reforms?”

“There’s a quote for you,” Albus grins. 

James is far too polished to rise to their bait, which is disappointing. “It _is_ an important cause,” he agrees, “which is why it would be wonderful for all of us to be there raising awareness together. Including you and Scorpius, Al.”

Albus sighs. “Look, isn’t this the opposite of what we should be doing? Isn’t it better if we just try and lie low for a bit, keep away from any reporters, which is how we prefer to do things, to be honest —”

“And make it obvious you’re hiding?” James looks horrified at the idea. “No, this will be much more effective. It sets the right tone — worthy cause, social responsibility, etc, etc. And there will be so many people there who are, with all due respect, far more important than you are — Mum and Dad and Ron and Hermione, for a start — so that should dilute the interest in you.”

Albus still isn’t convinced that this is a better plan than his _hang out in Muggle places and hope no one notices us_ approach.

But then James says, “Marilda thinks it’s a wonderful idea,” as though that settles the matter. Marilda is James’s wife and his publicist, and Albus has always found her hugely impressive and slightly frightening. James treats her word as gospel, and he looks so insistent that Albus finds himself muttering his agreement.

“Fine,” he says, “but — no, James, this is not a definite yes — I’ll talk to Scorpius about it. I won’t let you bully him into it if he doesn’t want to. Okay?”

“I would never bully anyone,” James says indignantly.

Lily concedes, “No one you’re not related to.”

*

Scorpius knows that Albus’s mind has a tendency to leap from subject to subject. But it’s still odd when Albus strolls out of the bathroom, towel wrapped around his waist, and says, “I need to talk to you about James.”

Scorpius raises an eyebrow. “If you were thinking about your brother in the shower, I don’t think you should admit that out loud.”

Albus makes a face at him. “Not funny in the slightest, Malfoy.” He sits down on the edge of the bed; Scorpius shuffles his feet aside to make room. He takes a moment to study Al, hoping it's covert enough that Al doesn’t notice. 

After their argument a few days ago, Scorpius has been trying to keep a closer eye on Albus. He’s not _worried_ , exactly. Albus seems mostly fine, and right now he appears to be his usual self, eyes bright, hair messy, smile a little shy. But Scorpius doesn’t know whether that day was a one-off, or whether Albus is really doing as okay as he seems.

Clearly trying to sound casual, Albus says, “So, James came by earlier. He mentioned some photos. Of me and you. Together.”

Scorpius nods. “Witch Weekly.” When Al looks surprised, he explains, “My grandparents were discussing it this morning. Absolutely mortifying.”

Albus grimaces. “Bloody hell. Look, I’m sorry about all this. I know it’s a pain in the arse. I know it’s not…” 

He lets the sentence fade away, and Scorpius has a fair idea of what he’s trying not to say. _I know it’s not something you’re comfortable with. I know you used to get really, really insecure about it, obsess over what they were saying about us, tear yourself apart for how you looked in the photos and for what people might think of you and a hundred other tiny, insignificant things._

Scorpius knows he wasn’t good with the attention. It had been embarrassing. It had made him want to retreat into himself and lock all the doors and never set foot outside again. It had amplified all the voices in his head that told him he was too weird and too chubby and too different from Albus for them to make even the slightest bit of sense together. 

None of that had been Albus’s fault, of course. Albus had been nothing but supportive of him. But still. There had been a small, ugly part of Scorpius that had blamed him for it, just a little. 

As Albus flounders, Scorpius steps in to spare him. “You don’t have to apologise. I know I was always weird about this sort of thing. I really let it get to me.” He pauses, and clears his throat before saying, “But I want to be better with it, this time. I know the sensible thing is to just ignore it. I don’t want to waste energy worrying about it, or blame you for things that aren’t your fault.”

Albus looks pleased, though also a little lost, as though this conversation has gone much better than he’d been expecting and now he’s unsure how to proceed. 

Scorpius adds, “I definitely need to talk to my grandmother about her reading habits, though. Can’t believe she’s actually _paying_ for that drivel.”

Albus grins. “We can stage an intervention for her and for James at the same time. Two birds with one stone. He gets _all_ the papers delivered — never try to eat breakfast with him, it’s owl after owl tapping at the window, absolute nightmare. If the name Potter is printed _anywhere_ he’s determined to read about it.”

Scorpius smiles too, though there’s still a lingering uncertainty that has him asking, “So James has thoughts about the photo of us, then?”

Albus rolls his eyes. “Of course he does. You know how he’s running for supreme ruler of the universe? Well, he’s worried that us getting back together will draw the spotlight away from him for five minutes.”

Scorpius feels a familiar discomfort twisting inside him, the hot certainty that James wouldn’t be having these concerns if his brother was dating anyone else, someone without Malfoy for a surname.

Al isn’t _saying_ that, though, not directly. If anything, he sounds exasperated, as if this whole thing is a terrible nuisance, just James being dramatic. 

“He has a favour to ask the pair of us, actually,” Albus continues. “Um. You can say no, if you want.”

“You’re selling this to me really well, Al.”

As Albus explains James's idea about the ball and his desire to ‘control the narrative’, Scorpius keeps his face carefully neutral. 

“You don’t have to,” Albus adds quickly. “I know it’s a weird thing to ask. But this campaign means a lot to James, so I try to humour him when I can. And it might be fun. It would be nice to get dressed up and go somewhere fancy with you and eat tiny, posh food. But if you’re not comfortable, I completely understand.” 

Scorpius is decidedly _not_ comfortable with this. Because in his family, they hide their faces from reporters rather than intentionally attend events that will be flush with them. 

But he doesn’t want to embarrass Albus, or James for that matter. Maybe Al’s association with him _would_ be a problem for James’s campaign. Up-and-coming politicians probably don’t want their brothers forming connections to ex-Death Eaters. 

If James thinks that Scorpius throwing on some dress robes and smiling at the cameras and eating some fancy food will help — well, it’s not a huge thing to ask of him, really. And the knowledge that Al wants this with him, wants to take him along to a nice event and happily admit that they’re together and not be ashamed of anything — that gives him a sort of courage.

He pointedly looks Albus up and down, warm brown skin still glistening with droplets from the shower, looking as broad and sculpted and mind-blowingly-hot as ever. He adopts a disapproving tone. “You know, it’s very manipulative of you to ask me a favour while sitting there shirtless, Potter.”

Albus’s cheeks flush adorably. “Oh. If you say so. Is it working?” 

“Apparently it is. Let’s do it.” 

Al’s face lights up. Then he raises an eyebrow. “Well, in that case, Malfoy, I’d say you’re overdressed.” 

It’s Scorpius’s turn to blush, but he obligingly tugs his shirt off as Albus leans over to him for a kiss. 

*

It’s been one of those days. Work was long, and stressful, and at one point he introduced himself as _Scorpius_ down the phone. He managed to joke about it with the caller, but Helena at the desk opposite kept giving him looks that said _what the fuck, Scott_ for the rest of the afternoon.

And, okay, _I secretly have an embarrassing name_ isn’t the same thing as _I am secretly a wizard_. But he can’t afford to get sloppy. He’s supposed to know what he’s doing by now. He did his two years of study, then his one year of supervised employment, and now he has to manage one more year of this by himself before the Ministry deems him fully competent. If he can do this without breaking the Statute of Secrecy and screwing everything up, that is. 

So Scorpius spends the afternoon obsessing over his mistakes, and when he gets home he keeps working through his emails and writing up the report his manager wants by the end of tomorrow, and then he reads up on the Muggle news so he’s not caught out if his coworkers start discussing current affairs. The light through his bedroom window begins to fade, until suddenly it’s nearly midnight and his eyes are tired and his back aches from sitting in one position for so long. 

He stands, stretches, hearing his back click. He grabs his laptop and pads downstairs, thinking that a change of scenery and a cup of tea can’t make things any worse.

He spreads his work out on the kitchen table and puts the kettle on. Inevitably, a cup of tea morphs into a cup of tea and a biscuit, and then a couple more biscuits. And then there’s a bowl of mashed potato left over from dinner, so he heats that up with some gravy. And then tea is nice, but hot chocolate is even nicer, so he heats some milk, adds cocoa and sugar.

He hears footsteps approaching the kitchen, the squeak of a floorboard under the carpet. The familiar sense of shame kicks in, but somehow leaping up and trying to hide the evidence of what he’s been doing seems even more pathetic. So he takes a sip of hot chocolate as the door opens and tries to act as though he doesn’t care what Draco thinks, as though he knows perfectly well that his father’s disapproving gaze is fixed on the empty bowl and the plate of biscuits and he doesn’t give a damn about it.

“For god’s sake, Scorpius,” his dad says.

Should he be eating mashed potatoes and caramel wafers at one in the morning? Almost certainly not. But on the other hand, he’s an adult and if he wants to then it is entirely his own decision. He contributes generously to the household bills and the food shop. It’s not like Draco _owns_ the potatoes. 

“I thought you might get over this nonsense now that you and Albus are back together.” 

Of course that’s what Draco thinks. There has to be a reason. Scorpius eats because he broke up with Albus. He eats because he’s worried about his exams, because work is stressful, because he doesn’t get on with Lucius. He eats to cope with his mum not being around anymore. 

Draco finds lots of neat excuses for it, and he thinks that if only he can find the right one, then that will be the end of it, then Scorpius can be _fixed_ and he’ll have the kind of son he thinks he deserves. 

“Are you listening?” Draco demands.

“Yeah, Dad. I heard you loud and clear. But I’ve got more work to do and more biscuits to stuff my face with, so you should leave me to it.” 

He stares at the laptop in front of him as though it’s the only thing in the room. After a moment, Draco gives up and slinks back to whichever solitary part of the Manor he came from.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Albus and Scorpius attend Lily's charity ball. A reporter asks Albus about Quidditch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Albus has a bad mental health day in this chapter and isn't very kind to himself about it, so just a reminder that everyone's mental health is important and everyone deserves to take care of themselves <3 
> 
> tw: panic attacks.

“God, that’s a nice suit. And how do you get your hair to do that _thing_? I think you’ve gotten more impossibly attractive since this morning. Both of you. Honestly. What sorcery is this?”

“Rein it in, Teddy.” Victoire throws a long-suffering look at Albus and Scorpius. “You can’t describe these two as your adopted brothers in one sentence and then shamelessly flirt with them in the next. It’s perverse.”

“Don’t stop on my account,” Albus tells him with a grin. “Please, continue to tell me how amazing I am. I’m all ears.”

Scorpius whacks him playfully on the arm; Albus makes a show of looking deeply wounded, clutching his arm to his chest, gazing at his boyfriend with huge doe-eyes. Scorpius looks exasperated, but Albus can tell he’s trying not to smile. 

“Let’s do photos,” Teddy insists, as though they’re teenagers about to go to a school dance. He spends the next ten minutes arranging everyone where he wants them, adjusting the camera angles, changing his hair colour three times until finally settling on the shade of chestnut he started with.

“We’re not going to _prom_ ,” Scorpius grumbles, and Albus is proud of himself for picking up on one of Scorpius’s Muggle references. 

Truth be told, Albus does feel a bit like he’s fifteen again and Hogwarts is throwing the Yule Ball, like he’s spent weeks trying to find the right outfit and practising styling charms on his hair and working up the courage to ask his crush to go with him. (Closeted teenage Albus had wanted to ask Jesper Lindhardt, but in the end had gone with Annie McBride, who was a very lovely person, but not exactly his type.) He’s attended plenty of Lily’s charity events in the past, and plenty of them have been balls, but this one feels different somehow. 

As Teddy pauses the photos to fuss around with the settings on his camera, Albus slips his arms around Scorpius’s waist. He knows that Scorpius prefers to avoid photos whenever possible, which is a shame, and would particularly be a shame tonight when he looks as incredible as he does. “Teddy’s right about one thing,” he says, keeping his voice low. “It’s _unfair_ how good you look right now.”

Scorpius hums, trying to dodge the compliment. “Pretty sure he was talking about you, Potter.”

His cheeks have flushed a little, and his hair is doing that stupidly sexy thing where it falls _just right_ over his eyes. He looks ridiculously good in the suit he’s wearing; it fits him perfectly and looks expensive even if it isn’t. _I don’t have any dress robes,_ he’d apologised, as though it were somehow his fault and not Albus’s for dragging him along to a formal event with barely a week’s notice. Albus had happily procured a suit of his own so they could match. 

They look good together. He has always thought that, even if there are times when Scorpius doesn’t agree.

Scorpius is looking at him now, eyebrow raised, questioning. Albus leans in for a kiss — because how could he not? He suspects he might struggle to focus on anything else for the rest of the goddamn evening.

*

_Scorpius_ and _socialite_ aren’t two words that often appear in the vicinity of one another, and tonight he feels particularly out of his depth. This is the sort of event that he imagines his grandparents used to attend at his age, before pureblood society crumbled after the war. Scorpius is fervently grateful that their weird archaic mating rituals fell out of fashion by the time things got around to him. Lucius was probably better suited to it.

There are staff on the door to check their tickets, take their cloaks, offer them drinks; there are endless guests presenting their hands for Albus to shake, kissing him on the cheek, complimenting his outfit; and Albus glides through the experience as though he does this all the time. Which, of course, he does.

Scorpius knows that Al is self-conscious about this sort of thing — he thinks he gets too shy and tongue-tied, and he really has no idea how utterly charming he is. Everyone he chats with looks happy just to be in his aura for a few minutes, which is a feeling Scorpius can relate to. Scorpius nods and smiles in the background, laughs along when appropriate, shakes people’s hands when Albus introduces him. 

They chat briefly with Lily and tell her how wonderful the event is; they have a very earnest discussion with James and his wife Marilda about the Minister's proposed educational reforms; they join Teddy in commandeering a tray of canapes from a passing waiter. Scorpius enjoys a few with smoked salmon and avocado while Albus devours what seems like several plates’ worth of caviar, asparagus, porcini mushrooms, pheasant and quail’s eggs. 

“Why is food more exciting when it's tiny?” Albus says, holding up a miniature lemon cake as proof. He offers it to Scorpius, who declines, so he tosses it into his own mouth instead.

At one point, a cheerful photographer accosts them and asks for a quick picture, just one, if Mr Potter and his friend wouldn’t mind. Albus glances apologetically at Scorpius, who nods, and Al throws an arm around him and smiles brightly at the camera. Albus is used to this sort of thing, of course. People following him around, asking for his photo, for his opinion on this or that, for a comment about his family’s latest achievement. Scorpius’s family end up in the papers when they bring Lucius home from Azkaban, cloaks pulled up over their faces, or when they feature in a line of mugshots below the headline: _Freedom at last — what the Malfoys deserved?_

All in all, the evening isn’t too arduous. No one asks them difficult questions. No one says to Scorpius, _So, I hear you live with two Death Eaters in a creepy manor house where literal war crimes were committed_ , and no one says to Albus, _why on earth are you back together with_ him, _Mr Potter?_ Which puts most of Scorpius’s anxieties about the evening to rest.

“This is exhausting,” Albus mutters, when they snatch five minutes to themselves. He grabs two flutes of champagne out of nowhere and hands one to Scorpius. “Sorry, I thought this would be more fun.”

“It’s fine,” Scorpius assures him. “It’s nice, really. I feel very fancy just being here.”

Albus smiles in a _I know that’s bullshit, but thank you_ sort of way. “Let’s step out for a minute.” He takes Scorpius’s arm and leads him into some side room that they’re probably not supposed to be in, but no one is likely to say so to Al Potter. 

Once they’re alone, he loops his arms around Scorpius’s neck. Scorpius can’t help but smile, and he leans in for a kiss. But when Scorpius adjusts his hands to get a better hold on Albus’s hips, there is a distinct crunch beneath them.

“Uh, Potter.” He pats Albus’s hips through his robes. “That doesn’t sound healthy.”

Albus reaches into his pockets and pulls out a small bag of what appears to be canapes. “I was gonna take them home, but we can have some now.”

“You … smuggled canapes out in your pockets?”

“They were really nice!”

Scorpius laughs. “You are completely ridiculous.”

“Why, thank you. Crab puff?”

There are crab puffs, mushroom crostini, mini blue cheese and fig tarts, and more of the lemon cakes Albus is so fond of. Some of them are slightly squashed, but all of them taste delicious. Scorpius is very amused and strangely moved by the whole thing, the idea that Albus Potter, in between shaking hands with politicians and posing for photographs and chatting to journalists, decided to sneak snacks away in his pockets.

Scorpius selects another blue cheese tart. “These are amazing.”

Albus grins. “Told you. And you barely had any. I didn’t want you to miss out.” Tongue loosened by too much champagne, he says, “I know you don’t like eating in public.”

Scorpius freezes. He feels as though Albus has slapped him. “What are you talking about?”

“It’s all right.” Albus shrugs, grabs another lemon cake. “We’re all weird about something.”

Scorpius sets the tart back down. He feels suddenly cold, a shiver creeping down his spine, pricking at the back of his neck. Too forcefully, he says, “I’m not weird about food.”

Albus looks up, swallowing his bite of lemon cake.

“Don’t look at me like that. I’m not, all right?”

“Okay. Sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it,” Albus says carefully, and Scorpius knows he didn’t, of course he didn’t because this is _Albus_ , who goes out of his way to do nice things and say nice things and make Scorpius feel good about himself even when he doesn’t deserve to. Even though he stayed up until one in the morning eating crisps that he didn’t even enjoy, and he spent all day snacking to try and ignore his nerves about tonight, and he’s squeezed himself into this stupid bloody suit because the dress robes in his wardrobe are from two years ago and there isn’t a chance in hell of them fitting.

Albus eats another lemon cake and chews, uncomfortably loud in the sudden silence. Scorpius hates that he’s made a big deal of this, tarnished this nice thing that Albus had tried to do, thrown it right back in his face. 

He wants to push it back down, to not let it bother him, to move on from the moment and enjoy the rest of the night. But he feels so fucking called out. He feels _seen_ , like Albus has stripped him naked in the middle of the street and invited people to stand and gawp at him. 

He stands abruptly, tries not to let Albus’s wide-eyed looks get to him. “I’ll see you back out there,” he says, and before he can think twice about it, he heads back into the hall alone. 

*

When Albus returns to the main hall, he sees Scorpius chatting with Teddy and Victoire, and decides not to go over to them straight away. He knows he could’ve been more tactful, and that Scorpius is sensitive about this sort of thing. And when Scorpius gets stressed, it’s usually better to give him a few minutes to cool off. So Albus heads over to James instead, who is waving at him.

Albus achieves about thirty seconds of regular conversation with his brother before they’re approached by a wizard who might as well have _I work for the Daily Prophet_ tattooed on his forehead. There’s a Quick Quotes Quill floating in the air at his side and he’s wearing a tweed jacket with elbow patches. 

“The Potter brothers together,” he trills. “What a delight.”

“Xander, old chap. You’re looking well,” James says genially, and engages in one of those James-like conversations where he acts like your more successful best friend and tactfully avoids answering any direct questions. 

Albus fixes a smile in place and makes occasional comments about the importance of the charity they’re supporting tonight (as Lily had instructed) and says some generic but supportive things about James’s chances with the Wizengamot (as James had instructed, though he chortles and says some convincingly modest nonsense in response). Albus is full of canapes and champagne, is thoroughly tired of small talk and fake laughter, and would much rather be curled up in bed with Scorpius, so he figures a quick exit is in order.

But then Xander says, with a fatherly sort of air, “Albus, I must say, we were all sorry not to see you flying with the Wasps last week. On the bench again, was it?”

_Shit._ Can he run? Would that be too rude, and too suspicious? James would murder him. “Um, yeah,” he agrees.

“That must be difficult,” Xander says, faux-consoling, and Albus feels his face getting hot. “Can you give us any updates on this? Our readers would love to know when they’ll see you back out with the team.”

James is looking at him expectantly, because of course James doesn’t know why he hasn’t been flying, so he probably thinks this is an innocent line of questioning. Maybe it is. Maybe the guy is just being conversational, just asking questions that anybody would ask. So why does his skin feel like it’s covered with needles, each one of them on fire?

“There are loads of great players on the team,” he tries, attempting to channel his inner-James and not really answer the question. “Rashid’s a really talented Keeper, he’s doing a great job this season.”

“There are rumours,” Xander continues, eyes twinkling, “of a rift between you and the Wasps’ coach...” 

“Are there?” Albus says feebly, and he can literally feel his palms sweating. “Well, er, I enjoy working with her. She brings some great ideas to the team.”

“Of course, Alicia Spinnet is an old friend of your father’s, isn’t she?” Xander presses. He gives a false little titter. “Perhaps a word from the old man would sort all this out for you, eh, Albus?”

James attempts, “But really, Xander, the state of werewolf-centred healthcare over the last decade —”

“If I’m no good for the team, then she’ll get rid of me,” Albus snaps. “Simple as that. My dad has nothing to do with it.”

James clears his throat and starts talking more insistently about werewolves and the scandal of healthcare provision in this country, and Xander seems keener to engage now that he has a pissed-off Quidditch player at his elbow. Albus manages to slip away. He feels like he itches all over, like ants are scuttling across his skin. 

He shouldn’t have snapped at the guy; he knows he shouldn’t. He should have laughed the questions off like Lily would have, or re-directed the conversation like James. The questions weren’t even that bad. It’s not Xander’s fault he can’t talk about Quidditch without turning into a quivering mess.

He tries to catch Scorpius’s eye, still with Teddy and Victoire across the room. He considers going over, pulling Scorpius aside, asking if they can go home. He wills Scorpius to look at him. But he doesn’t, too focused on whatever it is that Teddy’s saying, grinning as Teddy gesticulates wildly.

Albus’s breath catches in his throat. He can feel sweat on his palms, his forehead, his top lip.

He needs to cool down. That’s all it is. Some fresh air. A cool breeze. Then he’ll be fine.

He ducks outside, leans back against a wall, arms wrapped around himself. He takes a series of deep breaths, like one of the Healers had said he should. But there’s a pattern, he thinks, a certain pattern you’re supposed to breathe in, inhaling and exhaling for a certain number of seconds, and he can’t remember the pattern, doesn’t know how it’s supposed to go — 

“Albus?”

It’s Victoire, crouching down next to him.

“Everything okay?”

He’s shaking. He’s crouched down and he’s shaking and he made such a fucking idiot of himself with that reporter, and god knows what he’ll write, and James must think he’s a goddamn mess, and maybe Spinnet would have kicked him off the team by now if it wasn’t for his dad, maybe it would be better for all of them if he just packed it in now, saved them all the trouble — 

“Teddy wants us to get a bearded dragon,” Victoire says out of nowhere. They sit down on the ground in front of him, crossing their legs. “They’re these little lizards, and they make good pets, apparently — well, according to Teddy and some guy he was chatting to at the pub, who I’m sure is a _very_ reliable source. He assures me they’re sweet and friendly and not at all like actual dragons, and he’s set his heart on one for some reason...”

Albus tries to focus on Victoire’s voice, soft and soothing. He lets the pleasantly mundane conversation drift over him. He tries to breathe like he knows he’s supposed to, slow and even, in and out. After a while, Victoire tentatively rests a hand on his knee, and he lets them. He’s not sure how long he’s been out here or how long Victoire’s been with him. 

“I’m fine,” he tells them, before they can ask.

They nod. “Good. That’s good. Is there anything I can do?” He hesitates, and they say, “How about I go back inside and get Scorpius, and you two can go home.” 

“ _No_. Don’t. Don’t tell him. I’m fine. I’ll come back inside.”

He _is_ fine. Whatever happened just now wasn’t that bad. It wasn’t like before, when it had happened during practice, when he couldn’t see or speak or think, when it felt so terrible he was convinced he was dying. He’s fine. He knows he’s fine.

“Don’t tell him,” he says again. “I just need a minute, then I’ll come back in.”

Victoire says, “Okay, okay,” ever so gently, but Albus finds himself babbling, “I don’t want him to know. It’s too soon. We’re meant to be — fuck. We’re meant to be starting again, things are meant to be better this time, and I’m not going to mess that up. Don’t tell him. And don’t tell Teddy. Please, Vic.”

“All right,” they say, “I won’t tell Scorpius or Teddy, I promise.” And they’re still being so bloody gentle with him, but he can see the concern in their expression, and the dawning realisation as the pieces click into place. _Everything he’s said about Quidditch, about shaking off an injury. There’s nothing really wrong with him. This is all it is._

And he finds himself blurting out, “Yes, okay, _this_ is why I’m not flying. I had a panic attack on a broom, and I fell, and now I can’t go back out there until I prove to Spinnet and the Healers that it won’t happen again, that I’m not a complete fucking liability.”

“Okay,” Victoire says gently, and _god_ he wishes they wouldn’t. “If you’re not feeling well, that’s all right. You don’t have to apologise, Al.”

Spinnet told him that too, and the Healer she’d sent him to. He should be grateful, but it’s never made him feel anything less than pathetic. They’d said it might be stress, but what the hell does _he_ have to be stressed about? He has a cushy life and his dream job and great friends and family. He’s not putting himself in danger, not fighting dark wizards or saving the world or doing anything important. 

He stands, taking a moment to steady himself, fiddling with his cufflinks as though that might be the solution to all his problems. With some more of their gentle encouragement, he follows Victoire inside. He wants to fall into some easy conversation and act like nothing happened. He wants to chug another three glasses of champagne and pray that will be enough to let him stay calm. He wants to go home and curl up in bed and have Scorpius hold him. 

“He went home,” Teddy tells them, when Albus and Victoire find him again in the cavernous hall. “He said he wasn’t feeling well. Asked me to pass on his apologies, Al.”

Albus taps his foot erratically against the floor. He wants to smile, to brush this off like it’s nothing, but his facial muscles won’t cooperate. _Of course Scorpius has left. He’s mad at you. Why wouldn’t he be?_

“Maybe you should go and check on him, Albus,” Victoire suggests, their tone still gentle, their smile a little too bright. 

He doesn’t want them to worry, doesn’t want anyone to waste their time worrying about him when it’s nothing, when he’s fine, when it’s no one’s fault but his own that he can’t pull himself together. 

Albus clears his throat. “He’s all right — he said he might head off early. I’ll check in on him later.” He finally gets his face to work, and he paints on a smile. “Another drink, anyone?”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scorpius and Albus talk about some things, finally. Scorpius has a meeting at the Ministry about Lucius.

Albus drinks a bit too much champagne, leaves the ball feeling absolutely terrible, and flops onto his bed fully dressed. None of this is how he wanted this night to go.

He thinks about Scorpius's face when he'd said, _I'm not weird about food_. How defensive he'd looked, how betrayed. He thinks about Victoire throwing him looks of concern, hinting that he should go home, their worry growing more palpable with every second he ignored them.

He really wants to talk to Scorpius. Everything would seem less awful if he could just explain himself. But his owl is out hunting so he can’t send a letter, and he can’t apparate or floo to Scorpius’s because Malfoy Manor is as impenetrable as Gringotts these days. Scorpius is always saying he should get a Muggle telephone, and right now, Albus would give his left leg for one.

After a while, with great effort, he peels himself off the bed and changes into something more comfortable. He’s just resigned himself to scrawling out a letter and hoping his owl makes it home soon, when there’s a faint tapping from downstairs.

Albus leaps to the window, pulls back the curtain.

Scorpius. Standing in the back garden. Peering up at him in the darkness. He raises a hand in a half-wave, looking awkward and apologetic and really rather silly.

Albus wants to laugh, or perhaps to cry. He sprints downstairs, wrenches open the back door, and he flings himself at Scorpius.

Scorpius gives a little _oof_ of surprise as Albus collides with him. Albus clutches on like a limpet, feeling so bloody happy that he’s here.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d be pleased to see me,” Scorpius says, arms wrapped around Albus, holding him tight. “Guess I shouldn’t have worried.”

When Albus doesn’t reply, Scorpius slides a hand up to stroke his hair, familiar and soothing. “Fuck, Al, I shouldn’t’ve left like that. I shouldn’t’ve snapped at you. I got stressed and I just wanted to get out of there. I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t mean to upset you.” Albus’s voice is muffled against his shoulder. “I didn’t mean anything by what I said. It was just a stupid comment. Sorry.”

Scorpius makes a gruff sort of noise that might mean _it’s okay_. All the anxiety of the last few hours seems to eke away, and standing here with him like this, everything seems so simple. He’s here and Scorpius is here and it’s rather difficult to worry about anything else.

“Al,” Scorpius says eventually, “you’re standing in the garden in your pants.”

Albus huffs a laugh into his shoulder. He’s just in his boxers and an oversized hoodie, while Scorpius is still in the suit he’d worn to the ball, shirt untucked, no shoes. Both are equally odd choices of attire for standing in the garden at eleven at night, in Albus’s opinion.

Scorpius raises an eyebrow at him, then plucks at the sweatshirt Albus is wearing. “Is this _mine_?” he accuses. “Have you had it this whole time? I thought I’d lost it.”

Albus smiles weakly. “You can have it back, if you want.”

“Nah. Looks better on you.”

He’s smiling. He’s trying to joke. He doesn’t seem mad. He’s not telling Albus that he fucked this up and he’s a failure and Scorpius never wants anything to do with him for as long as he lives. As much as Albus knows that Scorpius isn’t going to do that — certainly not in the kind of words that Albus’s brain is mocking him with — that anxiety has been there all evening, thrumming against his chest. And he’s learned that he can cope with one stressful thing, maybe two, but when they start to pile on, that’s it, he’s done for. He’s a panicking, shaking, shivering mess who can’t pull himself together.

But right now, it’s easy enough to focus on Scorpius, who looks sweet and sheepish and wonderful. Scorpius, who he loves, who showed up at his door right when Albus felt he would give anything to see him.

Maybe he’s been quiet too long, because Scorpius is cupping his cheek, looking concerned. “You all right?”

_Not really_ , Albus could say. _Most of the time, I am. But tonight has been one of those times when nothing makes sense and everything is falling apart and I can’t work out how to pull it back together._

“Fine,” he says. “Just drank a bit too much. Free champagne is a blessing and a curse.” He scuffs at the grass with his bare feet. “Do you want to come inside?”

Upstairs in his bedroom, Albus wriggles out of the sweatshirt he’s wearing. Scorpius changes into some of the pyjamas he keeps at Albus’s, a soft t-shirt and stretched out pair of trousers. Albus doesn’t mind what he wears to bed — if he wants to cover up, that’s entirely his own business — but it’s difficult not to connect this to what happened earlier that evening. To what Albus said to him, unthinking, and the way that made Scorpius feel.

“You’re beautiful,” he says now, the words simple and easy. Scorpius probably looks bashful, but he can't see clearly enough in the dim light. His hand migrates carefully in the darkness until it finds Scorpius's arm, running his fingers across the warm, soft skin.

Scorpius says quietly, “I really am sorry about earlier. You didn’t say anything that wasn’t true. I know I’m weird about how I look, and what I eat. I thought I was over this sort of thing, but … this last year, everything’s been such a mess, and I’ve slipped back into old habits, I suppose.”

Albus’s fingers trace over the fox tattoo on Scorpius’s forearm, along up to his shoulder, down across his collarbone. He knows he doesn’t understand how Scorpius feels, not really. He loves Scorpius, and he also happens to love the way that he looks, and they also happen to look quite different. Scorpius has curves in places where Albus is flat; he’s soft in places Albus is firm. To Albus, this has never seemed especially noteworthy. 

“You’re really good about it.” Scorpius’s voice is soft and sleepy. “When I’m feeling insecure, or when I get stressed, you make me feel okay. You’re just ... you’re really fucking brilliant, Al. Thank you.”

Albus feels a lump in his throat. He doesn’t know what to say, and in the end he just whispers, “I’m really glad you’re here.” He nestles into Scorpius’s shoulder, one arm flung over him, fingers tracing gentle circles on his stomach.

*

Scorpius isn’t there when Albus wakes up the next morning, which sends his early-morning brain into a panic.

He gets up and pulls on his sweatshirt from last night. Scorpius’s sweatshirt, which he left here nearly two years ago and which Albus hung onto all this time, telling himself he’d get rid of it, only giving himself permission to wear it again these last couple of months when he and Scorpius got back together. It’s too big and rather scruffy, and Scorpius probably wouldn’t be seen dead in it these days. But Albus feels warm and safe when he wears it, and he doesn’t care how much of a cliche that is.

The bedroom door squeaks open. “You’re up,” Scorpius says, sounding a little shy. He holds up the two mugs he’s carrying, the comforting aroma of coffee wafting in Albus’s direction. “I raided your kitchen. Hope that’s all right.”

Albus grins. “I know what you’re like without coffee. Feel free to raid my kitchen _any time_.”

Tangled up together in bed, his legs sprawled over Scorpius’s, sipping fresh coffee in a comfortable silence, it seems ridiculous that Albus was so worried last night. Scorpius isn’t mad at him, and even if he was, then it’s nothing they can’t work through. It’s easy to believe that, now, in a way that had seemed impossible last night.

Scorpius sets down his mug on the bedside table. He coughs awkwardly. “So. Um. About yesterday. I know we talked some stuff out. But is there anything else? Anything we didn’t cover?”

Albus’s brain sputters, his guilty conscience writhing at the chance it might be caught. He says in a rush, “I don’t think so. I’m happy to forget about the whole thing, really. If you are. Honestly.”

Scorpius nods slowly. “So … we’re okay?”

“Yeah.” He reaches out, threads their fingers together. “Of course we are.”

Scorpius keeps his gaze lowered, eyes fixed on their hands together, his soft pale fingers twined with Albus’s calloused brown ones. Then he says quietly, “Are _you_ okay, Al?”

“Me?” Albus knows his smile is bright, too bright. “Fine. You really don’t have to keep apologising about last night —”

“Not about that. Not what happened with us. You…” Scorpius looks like he’s searching for the right words, and Albus feels frozen in place, though part of him wants to wrench his hand away and flee the room. “Last night, when I came here, you seemed really on edge. Like you were barely holding things together. I didn’t realise it properly at the time, because I was all worked up too, but this morning…”

Albus keeps the smile painted on his face. He thought he’d been all right last night, thought he’d pulled himself together by the time he got home. Had he really been that much of a mess?

Scorpius continues, “Maybe I’m wrong, but I don’t think that a bit too much booze would do that to you, and I don’t think an argument with me would, either. You don’t have to talk to me about it, if you don’t want. But I hope you’re talking to someone. Because whatever it is, it _matters_ , Al. You matter. I really hope you know that.”

For a moment, Albus thinks he can do it. He can laugh it off, tell Scorpius he’s read this completely wrong, say that it’s sweet he’s looking out for Albus but there’s no need to be so dramatic.

But those words won’t come, and his breath hitches. He starts talking, words cascading out of him. He talks about Quidditch, how he hasn’t flown in months and he’s scared he never will again, that he won’t be able to get back on a broom without panicking. How he knows he’s not sick, not really, how other people have it so much worse than this, so what does _he_ have to complain about? How everyone has been so supportive of him, from Spinnet to the team to Victoire last night, and how he’s letting all of them down because he can’t make it work, because he’s not trying hard enough, because he’s scared and he can’t push through it and he knows he’s ruining _everything_.

He’s probably not making much sense, but Scorpius listens. He holds Albus’s hand when it starts to shake, pulls him close when he starts to cry.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he murmurs as Albus stutters out an apology, wipes his eyes. “I’ve got you.”

*

Following the ill-fated charity ball, Scorpius and Albus decide to suspend their ‘only see each other twice a week’ rule, and Scorpius spends the next few nights at Albus’s.

Scorpius goes to work at the university, and Albus goes to Quidditch practice. In the evenings, they cook easy meals together, and go for walks around Edinburgh, and sit in companionable silence at home on the couch, Albus reading a book while Scorpius tackles his emails. Albus gamely agrees to be subjected to Scorpius’s collection of classic Muggle films; he enjoys Toy Story and is thoroughly bemused by the Avengers.

Things have felt a little different since they talked and got things out in the open — but not a bad kind of different. Scorpius doesn’t push Al to talk about how he’s feeling, not yet. They’ve taken an important step forward, and for now, that’s enough. Now more than ever, things are starting to feel like old times.

But this week also happens to include the day that’s been ominously approaching for a while now — Scorpius’s meeting with Susan Bones and the parole board to discuss Lucius’s case.

“They don’t need much from me,” Scorpius shrugs, when Albus asks him careful questions. “My dad thinks it’s a big deal, but it’s just a formality, really. He hasn’t broken the terms of his parole, so they haven’t got grounds to send him back to Azkaban. His Death Eater mates, the ones who were released before him, all of them had a year or two of house arrest before they were let loose on the world. So it’ll probably be the same for him.”

Albus kisses him before he leaves, tells him he looks fantastic.

“You’re full of compliments this morning.” Scorpius raises his eyebrows, feigns suspicion. “Should I be worried?”

“You look…” Albus sounds almost shy. “You look like _you_. It’s nice to see, that’s all.”

Scorpius isn’t sure why he rolled out of bed this morning and decided to make a bit more effort with his appearance. Lucius isn’t going to be there at the meeting, or anything, but it feels like a _fuck you_ to him all the same. He’s put on some eyeliner, and he’s wearing small hoops in his ears instead of studs, and his short-sleeved shirt makes no attempt to hide his tattoos. These are all small things, in a way, but it’s disconcerting to realise how reluctant he would be to walk around the Manor like this, how much he filters himself in the place he has to call home.

At the Ministry, he is ushered into a very functional meeting room to face Susan Bones of the Department of Magical Law — a firm but fair witch who Scorpius is pretty sure went to Hogwarts with his dad. Without preamble, she steers him through a series of questions about Lucius, his manner and his behaviour, how he is adjusting to life on the outside, etc, etc.

Most of the questions are easy enough to answer. But he’s given pause for thought when Bones asks, “Now, Mr Malfoy, has Lucius displayed any behaviour that has caused you, or would cause us, any concern?”

He hesitates before responding. That day in the kitchen has been playing on his mind, when he’d come in from the garden to find Lucius examining his wand. It’s alarming to think of how irresponsible he’d been, how easily the situation could have blown up, how it had been entirely in Lucius’s control. It wasn’t a reportable offence — Lucius had just been holding it, after all, he hadn’t tried to do any magic, thank god — but it doesn’t reflect well on either of them.

“He’s very interested in wands,” he says eventually, and Bones’s assistant scribbles away frantically, quill scratching against the parchment. “Maybe more than he should be. If you leave one lying around he’ll be sniffing at it, asking you questions about it, that sort of thing. It’s obvious he misses being able to do magic. So that’s probably something to keep an eye on.”

Bones’s eyebrows raise at the idea of leaving a wand _lying around_ in the presence of a convicted Death Eater, and she delivers a sharp lecture to that effect, but they move on without further issue.

For the final question, she asks, “Do you believe Lucius would present a danger to the general public, were we to relax the terms of his release?”

Scorpius has thought about this a lot. He has pointedly avoided his grandmother’s attempts to discuss the subject with him, to cajole him, persuade him of how Lucius is secretly a model citizen, he just hides it terribly well. Lucius has never tried to influence him about it, but then, that would require Lucius to admit he _needs_ something from his laughable waste of space of a grandson.

It’s no secret that Lucius Malfoy is a hugely unpleasant human being. He’s old and bitter and tired and humiliated. But Scorpius can’t see him doing more than lurking around the Manor with a scowl and reminiscing about its glory days. Sniping at Draco over the morning papers, mocking Scorpius with a glint in his eye, complaining to Narcissa as she smiles and soothes and humours him. He can’t _ever_ see his life being any more than that.

“No,” Scorpius tells her honestly, and Susan Bones’s face is carefully impassive. “I don’t think he’s a danger to anyone.”

*

When Scorpius arrives back in Edinburgh, he sees Al’s trainers in the middle of the hallway and he can hear the gush of the shower upstairs.

As he slips off his shoes, something catches his eye. A group of smartly-dressed people beaming up at him from an array of photographs laid out on a side table. Himself, Albus, Teddy, Victoire. The photos Teddy had insisted on taking before the ball, which he has presumably printed and distributed accordingly.

There’s still a part of Scorpius that doesn’t want to look at himself in a lineup with three of the most beautiful people he knows. But that seems pretty pathetic, even for him, so he flicks through the photos quickly. There are a decent handful — Teddy had insisted on taking loads — some of them suitably posed, some slightly blurry, some where no one is prepared for the photo, eyes closed and mouths open.

And actually? They’re not too bad. His suit is nice, especially considering the very reasonable price he paid for it. His smiles look pretty genuine. He doesn’t exactly _love_ the way he looks in the photos, but they’re not sending him into a small personal crisis, either. So in that sense, they’re a roaring success.

Albus looks incredible, of course, easily elegant in that suit he bought at the last minute, a lopsided grin on his handsome face. He looks a little awkward, the way he usually does when he knows a camera is pointing at him, but all the more endearing for it. Victoire looks so beautiful as to be otherworldly, as per usual; Teddy is casually handsome, looking at his partner with that soft, easy affection that Scorpius associates with the pair of them, with a look that says simply _you’re everything to me_.

Then Scorpius realises something. He realises how Albus is looking at _him_.

In one of the photos, Scorpius, Victoire and Teddy are obligingly looking at the camera. But Albus? Albus is looking at Scorpius. His expression is utterly soft and adoring, that same _you’re everything_ look.

He’s got one hand on Scorpius’s waist, and a part of Scorpius’s brain is insisting that this is a terrible thing, that it’s just drawing attention to this part of his body, which is prominent enough without the assistance, thank you very much. But Albus’s hand looks like it wants to be there, like it belongs, like there’s nothing strange about the pair of them together like that. Like it hasn’t occurred to Albus to do anything else.

Scorpius stares at this photo for a long moment. Then he heads upstairs, knocks on the bathroom door so he doesn’t give Albus the fright of his life by walking straight in there.

The room is full of steam, and Albus pokes his head out of the shower, dark hair wet against his face, bare torso glistening with droplets of water. “Hey. I’ll just be a minute. How was the meet—”

His eyes widen as Scorpius begins to unbutton his shirt.

“Oh. Right. That works too. That _definitely_ works.”

Looking a little dazed, Albus ducks back under the shower. Scorpius shucks off his jeans and steps in after him.

*

Later that week, on an unassuming Thursday afternoon, Scorpius finishes work on time for once. He’s already agreed with Albus that he’ll stay at the Manor tonight, because he’d like to spend some time with his grandmother, even if that means putting up with Lucius and Draco too.

He apparates into the hallway, tugging off his coat and hanging it on the rack by the door. As usual, his Muggle jacket is amusingly out of place amongst the row of dark cloaks, a symbol of another world that is so alien to everyone else in the house.

A door to his left flings open. Draco and Narcissa burst out of one of the drawing rooms. He stares at them, astonished, and they stare right back.

“Oh. Scorpius.” Narcissa’s voice is thin, frantic.

“Hi,” he says slowly, bag still on his shoulder, feeling a little foolish under their urgent gaze. “Um. Everything okay?”

“Go upstairs.” Draco’s expression is deadly, with no room for disagreement. “We don’t need to discuss this. Upstairs, now.”

Annoyed and bewildered at being sent to his room like a child, and still with no idea of what is going on, he starts, “What —”

Draco’s hand is on his shoulder, marching him towards the grand staircase. But then Narcissa is begging him, “You’ll help us, darling, won’t you? I can’t do it alone, we need another wand, another spell —”

Scorpius shakes out of his father’s grip. “Can someone please tell me what is going on?”

“Your grandfather,” Narcissa says, and Draco exhales sharply. “He doesn’t mean anything by it, I promise, this is all a misunderstanding —” Her voice breaks.

“Dad?” Scorpius demands.

“Lucius. He’s missing.” Draco looks pale, pinched. “He is not in the house.”

Scorpius gapes at him. “What do you mean _missing_?” But he feels the certainty hammering away at his skull, the fear of it writhing in his stomach. “Don’t tell me he’s got a wand.”

Draco’s face twitches. “He’s taken mine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter _really_ did not want to work for me. But I'm happy I got it in a vaguely presentable state, and I hope you enjoyed :)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scorpius struggles to manage his family. Albus battles with Muggle technology.

“I know how this looks, darling,” Narcissa says, as Draco grinds his teeth, as Scorpius gapes at them both, so horrified he almost wants to laugh. 

Lucius. _Missing._ With Draco’s wand. 

Narcissa continues, “I’m sure you have questions —”

“Questions?” Scorpius snaps, incredulous.

“— and we can talk more later, I promise. But now, we need to work together to bring him home.” She beckons Scorpius into the drawing room, gesturing to a table strewn with open spellbooks. Draco shuts the door firmly behind them as if somehow that might keep the secret in, as if the cat isn’t very much out of the bag already.

Narcissa picks up a hairbrush from the table beside her, a few long silver hairs caught up in its teeth. “I’ve got a spell we can try,” she says, brisk, authoritative, as if instructing Scorpius to do his homework or clean the dishes or brush his teeth before bed. “We can track him.”

Scorpius glances at Draco, who is grim-faced. “The Ministry will know,” he says, voicing what all of them are perfectly aware of and seem to be willfully ignoring. “They probably know he’s gone already. And if we start looking for him —” 

“Which is why this combination of charms is our best chance,” his grandmother says over him. “It is our best chance of remaining undetected, but it will require both of us to act at the same time.”

“I’ll do it,” Draco says quickly. “Scorpius, give me your wand.”

“Draco —” Narcissa argues.

“He is _not_ doing it.” 

“No one is doing it!” Scorpius stares at them. “Have both of you lost your minds? If he’s caught, they’ll send him back to Azkaban. But if they find out that we helped him, that we tried to cover it up —”

Narcissa takes a step towards him. “Give him your wand, Scorpius, if you aren’t willing to do it yourself.” Her own wand is in her hand, and for a wild moment he thinks she might actually try to disarm him. 

“Mother,” Draco warns.

“Let’s think about this, just for a minute,” Scorpius tries, and then the rest of his sentence is drowned out by a resounding _crack_ from the next room. 

The three of them rush out to see Lucius in the hallway, running a hand through his lank silver hair. His eyebrows rise very slightly when he sees them. If he regrets being caught, if there’s any alarm stirring in that hollow chest of his, he refuses to show it. “Good evening, boys.”

“Let me have that, my love,” Narcissa says gently, resting one hand on his arm, taking Draco’s wand from him with the other. “That’s it, that’s wonderful, thank you.” She sets the wand down on a side table.

“Where did you go?” Scorpius demands. “What the hell have you done?”

Lucius’s eyes, like shards of ice, drift from Scorpius to Draco. “Perhaps your brat is more like you than I’d thought,” he tells his son. “You have the same look, when you’re angry and petulant and afraid.”

Narcissa is tugging on his arm, trying to lead him away. “Upstairs, my love. Please, let’s go upstairs. You should rest.”

She leads her husband away from their accusing looks, and Draco snatches his wand up from the table.

Scorpius asks quietly, “Has he done this before?”

Draco shoves his wand into his pocket and doesn’t answer. His silence is clear enough.

“Perfect. Fucking _brilliant_. So he’s just popping out whenever he fancies it? House arrest what house arrest, right?”

“I didn’t know until today.” 

“But Grandmother did.”

Draco exhales. “Yes.”

Scorpius feels his stomach twist. So this isn’t just about Lucius — it’s about Narcissa, too. And that is much more complicated.

Draco says, “She said he had found some loophole in the security system and he’s been exploiting it in order to leave for short periods. Usually she goes with him. She swears he hasn’t done anything wrong, he just can’t handle being cooped up in the house. But today, he left without her knowledge, and she was worried, so she asked for my help. I don’t believe they do this often.”

“Not often? Oh, well, that’s all right then!” Scorpius feels like he’s going mad. He can’t believe he’s the only person reacting appropriately to this. “At his parole review, I told them he was doing fine, he was doing everything right, he wasn’t a danger. I lied to them.”

“You said what you thought was the truth.”

Scorpius crosses his arms over his chest. He glances at the spellbooks splayed out on the table. His grandmother would genuinely have done it, he knows. She would have risked everything to have her husband with her for just a little while longer. “I have to report this. You know I do.”

Draco says nothing. He leans back against a stretch of ugly, peeling wallpaper, eyelids heavy like a cat that wants nothing more than to be left in peace.

Scorpius wants him to be angry, wants him to be _outraged_ by this. He should be furious at someone, at something, even if that person is Scorpius. But his dad just looks empty.

“Are you going to tell me I shouldn’t?” he asks, trying to stir him for a fight.

“You will do whatever you think is right,” Draco says. “But think about this, Scorpius. They’ll come down on you too.”

Of course they will. Just as they should. He made himself responsible for Lucius. He’d been naive enough to view it as a formality, something he had to put up with for a year or two and then he’d be free to go back to his life as normal. And while he’s been out at work or seeing friends or staying over at Al’s, Lucius has been doing as he pleases. 

This is Scorpius’s fault, at least partly. And if he owns up to it, he is going to be utterly fucked. 

*

Albus is sweaty and sore from the gym when Dawson, the Seeker, calls him over after training. 

“Pub?” she asks cheerily, mud in her hair, broom slung over her shoulder. “A few of us are going. I know Spinnet doesn’t want us drinking right now, but we can all get a lemonade or whatever.”

“Sure,” he says, and her eyes brighten, surprised and pleased. He’s gotten into the habit of saying _no_ to stuff like this without even realising. “Sounds fun.”

Today has been a good day, he thinks. He’s spent most of it in the gym alone, as usual, while the rest of the Wimbourne Wasps swoop and dive in the air outside. But for once, he’s not feeling too bad about it. 

He had a session with Healer Elvari this morning, and it went pretty well. He cried a bit, but he also managed to actually _talk_ to her. This was a marked improvement on the first appointment he had, where he felt like his tongue was glued to the roof of his mouth and then he beat himself up over not being better at therapy, over not making enough progress quickly enough, at which point he decided to start skipping sessions altogether. 

He knows that one positive Healer’s appointment isn’t an easy fix-it for what he’s struggling with, and neither is Scorpius knowing, or Victoire. But all these things had seemed impossible only last week. He knows that he _can_ talk to a Healer about it, when he isn’t putting so much pressure on himself, and he knows that Scorpius’s easy company and Victoire’s cheery letters haven’t changed just because he opened up to them. They’re not telling him that he’s weak and useless and ungrateful or any of the other things he’s liable to think about himself. So it’s not the solution to everything, but it helps. It really helps.

Albus, Dawson and ten other Quidditch players pile into a pub round the corner from the Wasps’ training grounds, pulling several tables together and setting up camp in one corner of the room. Albus ends up squashed between Kettering, one of the Chasers, and Rashid, the reserve Keeper — or, Albus supposes, _he’s_ probably the reserve Keeper at this point. Albus makes a point of asking how his double eight loop is coming along, because he knows he’s been working on it. 

“It’s nowhere near yours, not like when you saved against Robbins last season,” Rashid enthuses, referencing a penalty Albus had blocked rather stylishly against Harper Robbins of the Tutshill Tornados. Albus attempts to look modest. “You’ll have to show me sometime, when you’re back in the air.” 

Rashid’s forehead creases suddenly, worried he’s said the wrong thing. Albus feels his chest tighten slightly, but he manages to say, “Yeah, that would be great,” and redirects the conversation easily enough.

He’s just bought another round for the table and is sharing a bowl of chips with Dawson and Kettering, when suddenly, Albus’s pocket starts singing.

“Shit.” He fumbles for the Muggle telephone Scorpius had helped him buy — a very recent purchase, and one he is slightly afraid of.

“Al Potter with Muggle tech?” Dawson grins. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

Kettering looks aghast. “Potter, no one has had a _ringtone_ since at least 2015.”

“Hello?” Albus says in the direction of the phone, prodding helplessly at the screen. He knows the incessant music means that someone is calling him, and that person must be Scorpius, because no one else has his number yet.

“You have to swipe it,” Kettering says. “The little green circle in the corner. No, don’t tap it, _swipe_ it. That’s it. Christ, you purebloods are useless sometimes, aren’t you?”

“I’m not a _pureblood_ ,” Albus says, affronted.

Scorpius’s voice emanates from the suspicious device, somewhat tinny. “Um. I know you’re not?” 

“Sorry,” Albus says rather loudly, and Dawson is looking at him fondly, which must mean he’s doing something wrong. “I was talking to Kettering.”

“Hi, Albus’s boyfriend,” Kettering says cheerfully. “We’re at the pub and embarrassingly sober.”

“Hi, Albus’s teammate. Al, am I on speaker?”

“On what?” Albus squints at the screen.

“Press this icon, Potter,” Kettering says patiently. “Your boyfriend really can’t be trusted with technology,” he tells Scorpius.

“It’s taken him a long time to get this far, trust me,” Scorpius says, and Abus can imagine the smirk on his face, exasperated and affectionate all at once. He finally swipes at the correct icon on the little black rectangle so Scorpius is speaking more quietly, and he puts the phone to his ear.

“You are no longer on speaker,” he informs him.

“I’m proud of you, Al. Sorry, I didn’t mean to call when you’re busy.”

“I can call you later, if you like? When I get home?”

“You,” Scorpius says, and the amusement in his voice makes Albus feel warm all over. “ _You_ are going to call me.”

“I could!” Albus insists, and Scorpius chuckles, Kettering smirks and Dawson rolls her eyes. Albus informs them all that they are very unsupportive; Scorpius agrees to call him again in a couple of hours’ time; and Kettering helps Albus hang up the phone afterwards. 

“So that’s your other half,” Kettering says through a mouthful of chips and ketchup. “He has a very sexy voice, Potter. Can’t I say that?” he protests, as Dawson elbows him in the ribs. “Too weird?”

“I’ll make sure to pass on the compliment,” Albus tells him. 

Kettering downs the rest of his lime-and-soda, then says, with uncharacteristic caution, “Not to pry, or anything. But. Just while we’re talking about your personal life, and all…” 

“Uh-oh.” Albus rolls his eyes and grins at Dawson, privately hoping that Kettering won’t ask anything _too_ strange.

“That ring you’re wearing. Is it all right if I ask about it?”

Albus looks down at his right hand, at the black band sitting on his middle finger. He’d first started wearing the ring a couple of years ago, and he’d been fully prepared to explain what it was if anyone asked him. _Oh, this? It’s an ace ring. Ace as in asexual. Me? Why yes, I do identify as asexual, as it happens…_ It’s been a while since he wore it regularly. But he decided to slip it on this morning, and he’s glad he did. There’s something nice about glancing down at his hand and knowing what it symbolises to him. 

“One of my mates wears something similar,” Kettering’s saying, “and I didn’t know if you were wearing it for the same reasons…”

Albus has, a couple of times, wondered about coming out to his teammates as ace. For a while, it had seemed too awkward, too _much_ , as if it was one thing to mention to them that he was gay but that explaining he was ace was somehow different, somehow an imposition on them. 

So he says it out loud, and it feels huge and it feels casual. Kettering is very nonchalant about it. Dawson has never heard the term before, so Albus explains. She’s interested and respectful and she asks all the right questions, and the whole thing feels so much better than Albus ever thought it would. 

*

After Albus ends the call, Scorpius clutches his phone for another moment, twists it in his hands, working out what he wants to do next. 

He’s happy that Albus is out having a good time — Al has never said it directly, but Scorpius suspects he has been avoiding his teammates recently. And it’s probably for the best, really, that Scorpius didn’t have the chance to blurt out everything that’s happened with Lucius. He needs to keep a cool head, needs to think about this rationally. 

In the end, he goes to see his mum. 

It’s a pleasant walk through the grounds; the evenings are getting lighter and the air is fresh and warm. The graveyard is at the far edge of the property, past the ornamental lake and the willow tree his mum had liked so much. (Growing up, Scorpius had thought it was perfectly ordinary to have all your ancestors buried in the back garden. Then he’d realised it was just a weird Malfoy custom, just one more to add to his list.) 

He crouches down in front of the headstone and mutters a few spells to clean it, not that it really needs the work. He and Draco are here often enough, keeping the area pristine.

He’s still crouched by the grave when he hears footsteps coming to a halt beside him.

“Scorpius,” his dad says quietly. 

He stands, tugs at the hem of his jumper, shoves his hands into his pockets to keep himself from fidgeting. He keeps his eyes fixed on the headstone. He asks, “What are your plans for her birthday? It’s come around quickly this year. Only a couple of weeks away.”

Draco ignores the question. He says, “I don’t want you to do anything rash.”

“Teddy remembered it was coming up. He always remembers. He’s good like that.” He glances at Draco, who’s staring at him, tight-lipped. “He’s invited me and Albus over for dinner that night. Said he’d invited you too, but you hadn’t replied.”

He’d been surprised when Teddy told him that. His dad and Teddy don’t hang out as much as they used to, pre-Lucius, but Draco _adores_ him. Always has. Teddy’s good looking, with the Metamorphmagus thing as a quirky bonus. He’s got a high-flying Ministry job. He’s confident, fun to be around, universally well-liked. He’s queer, but in a way that’s palatable to Draco. Scorpius would be lying if he said it didn’t used to make him insecure. But then, Scorpius is insecure about plenty of things.

“This is not your mistake,” Draco presses. “Don’t get more tangled up in it than you have to. You weren’t here. You saw nothing. Do you understand?”

“You should come to Teddy’s. It might be fun.” He remembers last year, when he’d stayed over at Teddy and Victoire’s and returned to the Manor the next morning to find Draco slumped in an armchair, eyes bloodshot, reeking of firewhisky. “I don’t think you should spend the day on your own, is what I’m saying.”

“Scorpius. I need you to listen. Lucius is my father. I will deal with this.”

“She would’ve known how to handle him,” Scorpius says softly. “Don’t you think? She would have been nice to him even when he was being an arse, and at first he would’ve thought she was a pushover. But she wouldn’t have taken any shit from him, and he would have learned to respect her in the end.”

He glances at his dad. Draco’s face could be carved from marble. His hand twitches for a moment at his side, as though it might reach out, might rest a hand on Scorpius’s shoulder and make some small effort at connection.

“I know Teddy would like to see you,” he tells his dad as he starts to walk away. “Think about it.”

*

When Scorpius calls again later that night, it takes a while for Albus to get there, but in the end he successfully answers the phone. 

“See, I _can_ work this thing without help. You’ve got no faith in me, honestly...”

Scorpius lies on his bed and listens to him chatter animatedly about the phone and the Wasps and the good day he’s had. Albus’s voice is happy and relaxed, and this might just be Scorpius’s favourite soundtrack in the world. He drinks a beer and works his way through too many cashews and almonds and a bit of chocolate, but he mostly doesn’t feel too bad about it. 

“How’s your day been?” Albus asks, and Scorpius realises he hasn’t said anything for a while. Albus’s voice has lulled him into a place that’s warm and calm and safe, and he isn’t keen to leave it. 

He wants to be honest with Al, the way they’ve promised they will be with each other. But this is different. This whole thing is a mess and there’s no reason to drag Albus into it. 

In the end, his answer is vague. “There’s a problem with Lucius that I need to deal with. But it’s all right,” he adds, as Albus makes a sympathetic noise down the line. “I know what I need to do about it.”

“That’s good.” Albus yawns. He’s been sounding sweet and sleepy for a while now. “I’m sure you can sort it.”

_I love you_ , Scorpius thinks, and he nearly says it. But it seems selfish to do it now. He would be doing it to make himself feel better, to get the words off his chest. To hear Albus say the words back to him, hopefully, and for it to feel as wonderful as it always used to. He bites his tongue.

“Yeah,” is all he says. “Me too.” 

*

Scorpius arrives at the Ministry bright and early the next morning, dressed more smartly than he needs to be, practically vibrating with nerves. 

“Do you have an appointment?” asks the wizard at the desk, looking at him suspiciously. 

“No,” Scorpius says, trying to rein in his impatience. “I sent a letter last night, but — please can you just let her know that I’m here? I only need five minutes.”

“Ms Bones is a very busy person —”

“I _know_ ,” Scorpius snaps, and the wizard raises his eyebrows, looking deeply unimpressed. He tries desperately to hold it together. “What about her assistant? I need to report something. A breach of parole. It’s about Lucius Ma—”

The door to a nearby office opens. Susan Bones looks him up and down, austere as always in her Ministry robes. “It’s all right, Pritchard,” she says, and beckons Scorpius inside. Scorpius scoots past Pritchard and steps gratefully into her office. 

Then he sees Draco, sitting in a leather armchair, clutching a cup of tea. 

Scorpius stares at him. Draco holds his gaze for a moment, then looks away, his face hard.

Susan Bones waves her wand, producing another of the armchairs Draco is occupying. “Sit down,” she says, and it doesn’t occur to Scorpius for one minute to refuse. “Now, Mr Malfoy, Mr Malfoy, perhaps you could explain to me what is going on.”


End file.
